For That Special Someone
by kraftykathy
Summary: The tag read like this; For That Special Someone. Molly was feeling apprehensive about her Secret Santa gift. Last year's gift had been a bit more torturous then previous years. When it came to the Department of Pathology, they tended to push the Secret Santa ritual to new limits.
1. Chapter 1

_**Of all the weird things to get inspiration from, I was watching Elf last weekend and this story popped into my head, haha! Profuse apologies to anyone working at hospitals. To finish this up before the holidays, I didn't go to crazy with research. I'm so sorry for taking such liberties! My only excuse it that it's fiction. Please forgive me! Also the I-don't-own-anything-disclaimer. There it is!**_

_If you jump into your bed_

_Quickly cover your head_

_Well, don't you lock the doors_

_You know that sweet Santa_

_Is on the way_

_(I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday – Wizzard)_

The tag read like this; For That Special Someone. That was it. There was nothing else. There was no card revealing the name of the gift-giver, no mark to identify the person responsible. Nothing about the mysterious present to provide any clues as to the individual responsible for the gift that Molly Hooper clutched in her hands.

Of course that was the entire point of the whole tradition of Secret Santa and the staff at Bart's hospital were true to the rules of the game. It was simple really. The task was to draw a name from the jar and then select a gift, preferably something witty or clever; perhaps a present that said something about the interests or character of the receiver.

The hospital hosted a formal holiday banquet each year after Christmas, usually coinciding with New Year's Eve. This worked well for most people, as it was a more culturally inclusive holiday. But each department enjoyed their own little holiday festivities. The one common feature of these celebrations was the Secret Santa gift exchange.

It was all fairly standard. After you drew a name, it was just a matter of sticking to the set price limit. Other variables seemed to be dependent upon the department in question. For example, the maternity ward seemed very tame. Gifts seemed to frequently consist of batches of homemade cookies and hand knitted wooly items. Being in the presence of all those precious babies did tend to give the whole area a good case of the warm and fuzzies.

The fatigued A&E staff, however, perpetually too overworked to put much energy into clever gift giving, seemed to go for the personal impersonals. Personal impersonals, for the uninitiated in universe of workplace gift exchange, often consist of generic gift baskets of toiletries; soaps, loofah scrubs, exfoliants, scented skin creams, bubble baths and the like. Of course these were not entirely unwanted, as any person spending that many hours on their feet can attest to the benefits of a nice hot soak in the bath. Perhaps not so impersonal after all!

The staff in Intensive and Palliative care put a bit more thought into their gifts. This was probably due to the more involved cases that the doctors and nurses dealt with in that area of medicine. They formed deep bonds with their patients, and with one another apparently, and it showed in the thoughtful presents they exchanged. For example, when Dr Bhasin found out that Physical Therapist Colleen Teague was fond of vintage salt and pepper shakers, she went on a search of London's charity shops and found an abundance of them that were relatively inexpensive. She was able to put together an impressive collection for Colleen and it cost more time than it did money. That's just how it was with this close knit team.

But the technicians of Bart's Labratory and the Department of Pathology was an altogether different world. They dealt with no living patients. It wasn't the battlefield of Emergency medicine. It wasn't miraculous beginnings of Maternity. And it wasn't the longer term care of Intensive and Palliative/Geriatrics. This was the end of the line, so to speak. The patients they dealt with were already dead. The only dealings with living patients, was more on a cellular level, using graduated pipettes, petri dishes and the ultracentrifuge as their means of interacting with them.

And somehow, the development of a nice dark streak directly in the region of the funny bone was an asset to working in such an environment. When it came to the pathologists and lab technicians there, they tended to push the Secret Santa ritual to new limits. It should have been a human resources nightmare, but somehow not one person had complained thus far.

And so Molly had always enjoyed this tradition despite the impending and unavoidable humiliation. It's not like she wasn't guilty of participating in a good portion of joke gift giving. She laughed as much as the next person at the inappropriateness of the items gifted to one another.

Her department liked to make the humiliation of co-workers as complete as possible by having each participant open their gift in full view of his or her colleagues. Each took their turn, no shirking allowed. It was the highlight of the departments annual Holiday festivities. Was it politically correct? No. Was it a chance to vent a years worth of frustration? Yes!

Molly was quite used to receiving her share of tacky jumpers, coffee mugs adorned with prancing kittens and preserved body parts in jars. She gave them enough fodder with her long term status as a single person (They seemed to completely overlook her short engagement with Tom), her obvious descent into cat-ladydom (maybe the cat themed blog had been a mistake?) and her skill at dicing up cadavers (Well that was what they paid her for, right?) – there was no shortage of jokes to be had at her expense!

This year, Molly was feeling apprehensive about the gift exchange. Last year, Molly's gift had been a bit more torturous then previous years. Well, torture was kind of the point, but usually you took your licks and moved on. So, it would have been just fine and dandy if it had gone no further than that Christmas Eve's party. Unfortunately it had haunted her for months afterward!

David Hughes was a Phlebotomist and Lab Technician at Bart's. Sometimes the staff called these technicians vampires because they were responsible for blood draws and the related lab work. Although, to be fair, they were among the few people in their department that had actual human contact with living patients. David had, in no uncertain terms, made his interest in Molly known. Though their paths rarely crossed at work, when they did he flirted with her shamelessly. Molly tried to be clear that she was not interested in his advances, but he just wouldn't listen.

She guessed there was nothing essentially _wrong _with David. Well, he was a little too sports obsessed for Molly's liking. She was never fond of the testosterone fueled, and rather vocal breed of sport fan that flooded the pubs at play offs or tip offs or whatever they called them. The aggression and competitiveness seemed almost violent. And she often thought, while rolling her eyes heavenward, why they didn't just whip them out and measure them already and be done with it!

There was also the fact that he had the worst breath she had ever encountered in her life, though she hated to be so shallow about a physical attribute. She knew what it was like to be judged and it wasn't a pleasant feeling. But she sometimes wondered how she could work on cadavers in advanced states of decomposition without a problem, but find it difficult to breathe through her nose in the presence of David Hughes.

But what it really came down to was boredom. David was dull. Dull, dull, dull! Oh Molly was quite aware that her perception of men was quite skewed because of a certain consulting detective, and that she really, _really _needed get over that once and for all - open her eyes to all the prospects there were out there in such a busy city. There were countless interesting and available men out there (though she was forced to wonder where they were hiding). The logical part of her brain knew this. She wasn't entirely daft, but that didn't mean she had to settle for a boring couch athlete with atrocious halitosis. She had standards!

Last year David had drawn Molly's name. It was stupid because the whole point was to _not_ reveal your identity to the recipient. Part of the fun came in guessing the name of your tormentor. But David had obviously not acquainted himself with the rules. He gifted Molly with a book of homemade coupons, with his name printed boldly across them, for back rubs and foot rubs, to be administered by him! It could have been a funny joke and initially she _had _laughed along with everyone else, but a couple of weeks later in the lab, after a marathon session of reading tissue samples under the microscope, David had found Molly wincing and rubbing her back as she stood from her stool. He reminded her of the coupons she still had to redeem.

And so she sat through the horribly awkward and, she might add, somewhat painful massage from a man she hardly knew beyond those occasions meetings in the lab. Weird was not a strong enough word for the experience!

For months after, Molly took great care to never display a hint of discomfort around David lest he remind her of the massages he owed her. She couldn't imagine how bizarre it would be to receive a foot rub from him, it seemed a rather intimate sort of contact between colleagues with no other association outside of work.

And there he was staring at her tonight. What if he had drawn her name again? How should she react? She would have to laugh it off, of course, but afterward?

Okay, she need only to compose herself. Keep calm, that was the key! It wouldn't be too tough, now would it? She could deal with any resulting repercussions later. Molly would prove that she could take a joke. She had done so before. She would do it again this time. It was all part of the fun, right?

It would be her turn after Mike Stamford. He was head of the department and therefore usually the ultimate target for joke gifts.

Mike ripped the wrapping away, gracelessly tossing it aside. "Okay, what have we got this time, eh? World's Worst Boss cup? Well, that's been done now, hasn't it? And I was pretty clear that there should not be a repeat of the chocolate flavoured body paint incident."

"So what flavour would Vanessa prefer?" Some daring soul called, followed by cheers and whistles.

"My wife tolerates your – ahem - _creative_ gifts only because she is aware that all of you will return to your normal professional selves after the holidays." Mike laughed.

He finally wrestled the gift from the paper only to reveal an inflatable hemorrhoid ring. Mike read the card out loud. "To a right pain in the arse." More laughter ensued.

Of course everyone knew Mike was an easy going guy, so it was pretty safe to laugh. Sometimes the humour in the gift was how out of character it was for the person it was intended for. That was often the case with Mike because he was generally well liked by the entire staff. He had a gentle patience about him. That being said, he was no push over; he was a solid comforting presence, always approachable and supportive of the people under his management.

But then there were other gifts that took direct and personal jabs at the person in question. The circumstances surrounding Meena's gift was a good example of this. She was not someone who could be described as the demure type. She was loud and boisterous and she could be very vocal about her sex life which lately had been rather lacking, something she complained about constantly. Any one who spoke to her knew precisely how long it had been since the last time she had gotten laid.

So when she opened her gift and found it to be a monstrosity of a dildo - Molly eyes widened in shock and noted that this probably broke the limits set on gift price - well that one had hit rather close to where Meena lived. But she took it all in stride. Instead of getting angry, she broke out into a huge grin.

"This is just what I needed!" she proclaimed. "A man without all the useless bits!" She had spent the last hour wielding like a scepter bonking it on the head of the co workers she suspected of be her Secret Santa.

Molly looked over to Mike Stamford, who now sat upon his inflatable ring. Some one had placed one of those paper crowns from a party cracker on his head and he sat like a King presiding over his realm. He only needed Meena to join him at his side with a matching paper crown and her dildo scepter as his Queen (though, by that time she had now changed to waving it like a wizard, declaring it to be her cock-wand that might bestow a bountiful sex life upon all that fell under it's power.)

Sometimes Molly wished she were more like Meena. She could take the most embarrassing situations with out batting an eye. Molly could only stammer and blush when presented with similar circumstances.

And now it was her turn and everyone was calling for Molly to open her gift. Mike was leading the chant calling, "Open! Open! Open!"

Molly knew it was best to just get this over with. The sooner it was done, the sooner she could slip away from the party that would soon be winding down, emptying the basement of Bart's to a skeleton crew over the next week.

But the best bit of luck came right at that very moment when Molly was called down to attend to a body that had just arrived fresh from a crime scene. Molly scooped up the present and ran for it, disregarding the disappointed booing of her colleagues. A pathologists job is never done.

Thank God!


	2. Chapter 2

_**Oh, thanks for the favs, follows and reviews! It's so lovely! Time to take a little trip to the morgue. This is becoming my favourite kind of scene – examining the body, gathering evidence and watching these people work together and react to each other. Fun! (psst -I still don't own it . . .in case you were wondering.)**_

_I could have been someone_

_Well so could anyone_

_You took my dreams from me_

_When I first found you_

_I kept them with me babe_

_I put them with my own_

_Can't make it all alone_

_I've built my dreams around you._

_(Fairytale of New York – The Pogues)_

Molly clutched her Secret Santa gift in a vise like grip as she made her way down to the morgue. Back at the party, she was sure that a bottle of kahlua was making it's rounds, by now, spiking the coffees of those who were not scheduled to work that day, judging by the raucous the party made, now muted by distance.

She found Sherlock and Greg awaiting her arrival just outside the double set of swinging doors that led to a series of examination rooms where autopsies were preformed.

"Molly, I'm so sorry to drag you away from the party." Greg Lestrade looked truly apologetic seeing the pathologist arrive with the gift still in her arms.

"Yes, well, death doesn't take a holiday, does it?" Molly replied with a shrug. This wasn't her first Christmas murder. Nor would it likely be her last.

Greg nodded with compassion. How well he knew this, having put in his share of time working homicide through the holidays. He stepped aside so Molly could lead the way.

"Sherlock." Molly nodded at the consulting detective by way of greeting. "John not with you today?"

"He abandoned me." Sherlock scowled. "He attended the crime scene, but he started going on about something – wasn't really listening - haven't seen him since." Sherlock gave an annoyed huff. "And people call _me_ inconsiderate?"

"Sherlock," Greg gave a long suffering sigh. "I've told you this three times. John was there for six hours but he had to get back to his family. He was very clear that Mary and Lucy were expecting to meet him for dinner."

"Why would he do that?"

"You're the one who told him that this crime only rated a five and that you would have it solved with the evidence from the toxicology screen. There wasn't really any reason for him to stay, now was there?"

Molly listened to the men bicker as they approached Exam Room A. "Sherlock, it's their first Christmas as a family." Molly explained. "You can't blame John for being a bit excited about that."

Molly unlocked the room and held the door open for Sherlock and Greg.

"Why? An infant has no basis for comparison, no preconceived notions regarding holiday traditions and therefore has not developed expectations. To Lucy it will just be another day, like any, where she will likely repeat her set patterns of sleeping, eating, urinating and defecating. I don't understand what the fuss is about? Even a five is more interesting than that!"

Greg just looked at Molly and she rolled her eyes behind Sherlock's back, but the consulting detective glanced over his shoulder in time to catch the exchange. "What? Is that not good?"

"A bit not good." Molly said with a smile. "I think John would prefer to spend time with his wife and daughter, rather than to stand around at a crime scene that you've obviously already solved.

"Not entirely." Sherlock sniffed. "We still need the lab results."

The three looked at the bagged body on the gurney before them. Molly stepped forward to unzip the bag before remembering the package in her arms. The problem was that she didn't exactly want to put it down in the same room as Sherlock. Who knew what he might deduce about the contents? She had a tiny glimmer of hope that she just might get the package home. Then she could open it in the privacy of her flat and avoid the added stress of an audience.

Of course Sherlock Holmes observed her dilemma immediately.

"You seem hesitant to let go of that package." There was an odd smirk on his face. "Would you like me to do the honours?" he asked gesturing to the body.

Molly hugged the gift to herself. "Uh, yeah, sure. Be my guest."

He stepped up to the table, pulled down the zipper and parting the opening of the bag, revealed the body within.

The corpse was a young man, Molly observed, probably in his late twenties, early thirties, if she had to hazard a guess. She had seen plenty of young men on her table over the years, men who had died in many different ways under some very unique circumstances, but there was something about this one that made it a first in her career. He was dressed like Father Christmas. He wore a red robe trimmed in white fake fur, a hat to match and beard that was tied to his chin by an elastic string. Molly raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"Festive." She commented.

"Yes." Sherlock agreed. "His body was found in the heating and cooling duct work of a condominium complex."

"I've read about a couple of cases like that." Molly replied. "Tragic. Dad climbs down the chimney or through duct work to play Santa for the kids. They meet with a mishap along the way: heart attack, stroke, broken neck. Poor kids. What a terrible thing to happen at Christmas."

"Only this guy doesn't have kids." Greg supplied.

"No? Then why would he do this?"

Sherlock took out his magnifier and having pulled back the fake beard, he closely examined the region of the victim's mouth. "Come look at this Molly and tell me what you see."

Molly tucked the gift under one arm to free a hand and take the magnifier he offered. She bent over the body to look where Sherlock indicated. Right away she could see the dried foam of saliva around the cadaver's mouth.

"Does anyone know if he had seizures?" Molly asked

"Well because he was in the duct, no one saw him." Greg answered. "But the reason he was found was due to the multiple reports of banging sounds coming from the heating vents."

"Dents in the steel, where the body was discovered could indicate seizures at the time of death." Sherlock commented. His eyes were twinkling as they had that tendency, when sifting through the details of a murder. "And look at this."

Sherlock had pointed out the man's finger nails, which were bloodied. And then he pulled up a trouser leg where there were visible scratch marks raked into the flesh.

"Formication due to paresthesia? You think he was poisoned?" Molly asked.

"Scratched his skin to ribbons due to the pins and needles feeling. It would have felt like bugs crawling under the skin. Yes, all signs point to poisoning."

"So you want a full toxicology screening?"

"Yes, but I want you to check for the presence of grayantoxin, primarily."

"You think this is from Rhododendrons?"

"Yup. The murder suspect is the victims estranged wife. Their parting was not an amicable one, it would seem. A prolonged court battle involving shared business interests revealed rather intense feelings of hostility between the two. The pair were to have met to discuss a possible deal over tea this morning. He told her he was flying to Spain later in the day to spend some time with family for the holidays. The poison would have taken several hours to affect the victim. The wife likely thought he would be out of the country be the time he succumbed to the toxins. Little did she know that the flight was a cover. The body was found with a gun. I dare say that if she had not been successful, we would be standing over a female corpse with gunshot wounds instead."

"Happy Holidays." said Molly shaking her head.

"And a Happy New Year." Greg answered.

"Too simple." Sherlock sulked. "Ranked only a low five. Hardly worth my time.

"I don't know, Sherlock. It seems complex to me. How do you know the wife did it? I mean beyond the hard feelings – that's kind of common in divorce cases." Molly wondered.

Greg pulled out an evidence bag containing a jar of honey. "Well, once we test this we should have a clearer picture."

"Honey is the most common source of grayantoxin poisoning. This jar was found with the tea setting in her residence; a condominium in the building where the body was discovered." Sherlock stated.

They were interrupted by the sound of someone crashing noisily through the morgue. A squeal of laughter sounded just beyond the exam room door. "Molly! Where_ are_ you!" It was Meena and by the sound of it, she was quite intoxicated. She popped her head through the door, eyes landing on the body.

"Well Merry Fucking Christmas." She called. "God. That's pretty sick!"

"Should she be in here?" Sherlock asked

"You know she works here." Molly sighed shaking her head. The morgue exam room was not exactly an appropriate place for the annual festivities to spill over.

"Molly! Who's your cute friend?" Meena asked in a loud stage whisper eyeing Lestade with interest.

Meena still had that dildo clutched in her fist. Lestrade eyed it with some trepidation, but Meena was a quite an attractive woman. And there was Lestrade, on another one of his seemingly endless marital separations. His wife had taken up with her yoga instructor this time, and well, it was beginning to look like a permanent parting of ways, probably should have been a long time ago. An attractive woman showing interest was definitely something he was open to, even a giant dildo toting one.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." He flashed a smile that lit his handsome features and Meena returned it with increased interest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust.

"But you can call me Greg."

"And I'm Meena." She held out her non dildo occupied hand to shake Lestrade's. "And I guess you are here to keep the people of London safe from heinous crimes, Greg?" She said sweetly all but batting her eye lashes and simpering at the hopeless man.

"That's part of the job description." Lestrade seemed to puff up, full of virile pride.

"Well you should be knighted, sir." She said, wielding the dildo which now had apparently become a sword. She tapped him with it on each shoulder in turn and Greg actually started to blush.

Molly snorted in amusement.

"I knight thee, Sir Gregory Lestrade, Knight of the Scotland Yard." Meena solemnly announced. And then Greg and Meena laughed, more than the situation called for in Molly's opinion. She looked at Sherlock with raised eyebrows and he mirrored her expression.

"When you're done here, why don't you come join the party?"

"I would, but I'm on duty . ." Greg looked truly disappointed. These kind of situations just didn't happen to him every day!

"It's going to take a couple of hours to get the results." Molly said. "May as well go, Greg. Have fun."

Meena held out her bottle of kahlua in offering but Greg declined. "Like I said, I'm on duty, but I will accompany you if you'd like? How about it then, M'lady?" He held out his arm and she looped hers through it. "Shall we?"

"You bet, cutie! Oh, and Molly – don't think you've gotten out of opening your gift. We'll be waiting for you!" And the pair sauntered off together.

The next couple of hours passed with Sherlock and Molly working together in the lab. Molly thought she might drop the gift into her office and lock the door, but she knew that would draw Sherlock's attention to it, and if he got it into his head to find out what was in the package, the lock on her door would not be sufficient to keep him out.

But obviously it had already caught his interest. And he tried to get her to talk about it at every opportunity. As they took blood and tissue samples from the corpse, Sherlock tried to question her.

"I assume that is part of the ridiculous gift ritual this institution insists on perpetuating?" He said gesturing to the package. "Are you going to open it?"

"No." That was all Molly would say on that matter.

"The whole point of a gift is to discover what is inside."

"No."

As they worked side by side with a set of petri dishes in front of them Sherlock stated."I can deduce the contents if you let me ask three questions."

"No." Molly reply. No further comment.

As they sat side by side at the microscopes, the package balance on Molly's lap, Sherlock feigned disinterest. "You know, you don't have to keep holding it like that. I have no interest, really Molly and it's getting in the way. Why don't you just go put it in your locker?

"No."

It occurred to her that he was teasing, which for some inexplicable reason caused her stomach to flip flop. Damn it! He always got to her! She kept trying to write him off, but she just couldn't seem to dismiss him completely from her fantasies. It was so silly. All those years of trying to flirt with the man only to be greeted by his cold glares, the way she had dressed herself up for him only to be criticized.

God. She was his David Hughes, wasn't she?

And in more ways than she liked to remember. There was that horrible gift incident, that Christmas Eve he had said those awful things to her. She only meant it as a joke but when she thought of it now she felt deep sense of humiliation. His David Hughes, indeed!

She never did find out if he had opened the present. Considering everything that had happened after, she really hoped he hadn't or that at least he might have deleted the experience. She would probably never know. In fact, in this case she could say with certainty that ignorance really was bliss.

Finally she reminded herself that they were friends now. Yes, her feelings for Sherlock were still there, but she controlled then now, they didn't control her. They were friends, more than just co-workers passing each other in the corridors. It was . . .nice.

The results came back positive for grayantoxin, both in the corpse and the jar of honey. Sherlock and Lestrade (with Meena's number tucked in his wallet) left for a second round of questioning of the suspect.

Soon the morgue was quiet and empty, the sounds of the party absent. It was over then. She breathed a sigh of relief, slipped stealthily out of the morgue and made her way home, package tucked firmly under her arm.

_**A/N - So instead of revealing the contents of the package, I give you another mystery gift to think about instead!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**I'm having fun listening to songs to represent each chapter. Anybody have a some favourites to share? Leave a review if you're inclined, they make me smile! Holiday fluff is fun! And I don't own these characters. I just play with them. **_

_So, deck those halls, trim those trees_

_Raise up cup's of Christmas cheer_

_I just need to catch my breath_

_Christmas by myself this year._

_(Christmas Wrapping – The Waitresses)_

It was Christmas Eve and Molly poured a large measure of Bailey's into her glass. She thinned it with only the smallest dollop of milk, dropping in a couple of ice cubes and adding a candy cane with which to stir the drink. It looked pretty and satisfied her seasonal urge to gorge herself on sweets. The happy buzz from the alcohol was just icing on the cake.

As always, she was alone on Christmas Eve. This was par of the course for Molly Hooper, at least it was how things were since her father had passed away almost seven years ago. She didn't want to be a grinch, but she hadn't exactly felt up to celebrating the holidays in any traditional sense, ever since his death. It always amazed her how the grief could sneak up on her and pull her down for another round, leaving her to wonder if you ever really get over losing someone you love.

Oh sometimes her mother would insist on throwing together a little holiday dinner gathering. She would invite distant relations that Molly had not seen, nor even really thought about in years, or friends from the seniors complex where she now lived, but it was becoming more common for her mother to book an island vacation or perhaps a cruise that coincided with the holidays. Molly suspected her Mother did this due to her own difficulties in facing the holidays without Dad. But where Molly chose to wallow her way miserably alone amidst the festivities, her Mother picked a healthier approach in dealing with her loneliness by surrounding herself with single, attractive elderly gentlemen. There was something depressing about the fact that her mother saw more dating action then she did!

Her sister had moved to New Zealand after their Dad had passed, and they were not as close as they had been in childhood. They had spent several inseparable months, after the funeral, while they took care of their Mother, helping her with the hard decision of selling their childhood home, and moving her into a senior community. But eventually Sarah had chosen to seek a new life as far away as possible. They had hugged and many tears were shed before she had boarded her plane. Seven years later, Molly had only seen her on two occasions. They tried to keep in contact using social media, but they both understood the reality of the situation; they were growing apart.

So on this Christmas Eve, when Molly had returned from work with her Secret Santa gift still unopened she tossed the irksome package onto the kitchen table and fixed herself that whopper of a drink. Her plans consisted of spending Christmas as drunk as possible. Mrs Hudson had invited her to Christmas dinner the next day and she had accepted with some misgivings, previous Baker Street Christmases coming to mind, and she had come to this conclusion; if she kept up a certain level of inebriation, she might let any impending insults slide off her like melted butter.

With courage bolstered with her first sips of Irish Cream, she approached the gift, ready to reveal the contents of the package. She felt extremely grateful for the privacy to react in whatever way came natural to her.

The paper was shiny gold foil with a silver bow firmly affixed to the top. Molly picked carefully at sellotape, taking her time to remove the wrappings without tearing them. She was in no great hurry to see what glittery wrapped humiliation lay within the shiny packaging. Two more pieces of adhesive parted the box top from it's bottom and Molly pulled it away. Her mouth dropped open at what she saw lying amidst the white tissue paper. The lid fell from her hand to the floor.

She was going to need another drink

0o0o0o0o0

After a nice long hot bath, she was ready to settle in for the evening. Soft Christmas music issued from her stereo and her Christmas tree twinkled cheerily. It's true that Christmas wasn't an easy time for her, with nostalgia constantly threatening to choke her up and memories surfacing like unwanted bubbles. At first the recollections seemed sweet until they reminded her of what was lost along her father's passing. But that didn't stop her from trying to recapture the feelings she used to get from the holidays - the excitement of youth, the sweetness of coming of age, the peace of adulthood. Try as she may, it seemed there was no turning back.

The tree was a way too big for her tiny flat. She made the same mistake every year, always forced to cut off several inches from the top to make it fit. And she would be finding needles until April, no doubt. But she never let that stop her. She wondered why she tortured herself. This was a fairly predictable recipe for a night spent in pathetic self pity. She made a vow to take a lesson from her Mum and spend next Christmas on a hot sunny beach.

There was a soft knock at her door that startled Molly out of her sombre thoughts. She thought it might be her elderly neighbor. Mrs Morrison's daughter always took time to visit during the holidays, bringing her children to visit their Nana and the sweet woman never failed to bring Molly a plate of baked treats from their celebrations. It was quite lovely and was usually the highlight of her Christmas.

She modestly pulled her red fleece dressing gown close around her and secured the ties at her waist before skipping to the door to look through the peep hole. It was an utter shock to see Sherlock standing on the other side of the door, a wide smile on his usually stoic face and large flakes of snow melting in his dark curls.

What could he possibly want? Well, there was no way she was heading back to Bart's! She would have to be firm about that. She was already on her second glass of Bailey's and she was quite tired from the long day behind her. She was certainly not clear headed enough to deal with any bodies. Of course, Sherlock had a way of talking her into all sorts of situations she had no intentions of getting involved with, but he had always had that effect on her.

She sighed and opened the door to the consulting detective, stepping back so he could come right in, just as she knew he would. Sherlock didn't often pay attention to social niceties such as asking if he could come in and Molly knew him well enough to accept this quirk of his. Some battles were not worth the aggravation.

"Whatever it is, Sherlock, the answer is no. I'm not working tonight!"

He looked at her with confusion for a moment and then waved a hand in negation. "No, no, it isn't that. It's just that I find myself in need of a bolt hole tonight."

_Oh. _It had been some time since Sherlock had required a place to lay low and she briefly worried about what kind of trouble he might be in this time. But then again, it might be nothing. The most common scenario that had lead to Sherlock seeking out a quiet hideaway had nothing to do with danger. It was back in John Watson's bachelor days and if Sherlock had suspected he might be forced to endure an evening subjected to the mating calls of a certain doctor and his flavour of the week, he would just a soon take a pass on the experience. And God knew Molly's flat was woefully bereft of such romantic endeavors!

Well, John would be with Mary and their baby tonight, spending their first Christmas as a family, so mating calls were not the cause of the impromptu visit. And judging by the way he casually tossed his coat and jacket onto a chair in the sitting room, kicking off his shoes before throwing himself down onto her sofa with stockinged feet propped on the coffee table, well it didn't appear to be a matter of life or death that brought him here this Christmas Eve.

"Well, if you're going to stay, can I make you a drink?"

He eyed the drink in her hand with a certain amount of apprehension but nodded. A moment later he held his own Bailey's, candy cane jutting merrily from his glass. He took a polite sip and grimaced at the sticky sweet concoction but held back any criticisms. Molly felt this was a minor Christmas miracle.

And there they sat at opposite ends of the sofa as Bing crooned about the all Christmases he used to know. It felt strangely domestic as they stayed that way, quietly sipping their drinks and watching the snow swirl outside in the black night. Molly was just thinking that it was actually kind of cozy to not be sitting alone on Christmas Eve when Sherlock broke her out of her reverie.

"So you've revealed the mystery of the anonymous gift exchange."

"What?" She asked pulling her gown close around her.

"The package you were clutching like the pin of a grenade back at the Lab. I'm assuming you found a way to avoid opening it in front of half of your colleagues? The wrappings are over there on the floor" Sherlock pointed to the place she had dropped the box in her of shock.

Molly stood up suddenly, checking to be sure her robe wasn't riding up in the back before rushing to the kitchen.

"Whew, I'm really going through these! Ready for another, Sherlock?" She swiftly grabbed his half empty glass before he had a chance to reply and dashed back to refresh their drinks.

In the kitchen she cursed quietly to herself. If she had only guessed Sherlock would drop by tonight of all nights she never would have . . .

But she had evaded the question this time. Of course he probably thought she had lost her mind. _Molly, _she thought to herself, _you are a master of deflection._


	4. Chapter 4

_**I'm having so much fun with the story! I hope you are, too . . . ? And I'm loving hearing from you. It's the best! I don't own the characters, but we sure do have fun with them here, don't we?**_

_They know that Santa's on his way_

_He's loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh_

_And every Mother's child is gonna spy_

_To see if reindeer really know how to fly_

_(Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire – Nat King Cole)_

When she came out of the kitchen a few moments later, drinks in hand, Molly found the sofa empty. A quick glance around the room explained the sudden disappearance. Sherlock now sat on the floor under her tree sifting through the few gifts she had placed there.

In spite of that disastrous Baker Street Christmas long ago, Molly had decided to throw caution to the wind and bring gifts to Mrs Hudson's dinner party, past experience be damned! She knew her father would have approved because he had always upheld the idea that giving was the sincerest expression of Christmas spirit.

That didn't mean that the Hooper clan had exchanged presents on some impossibly grandiose scale; quite the opposite. The Hoopers appreciated small but thoughtful gestures, homemade if at all possible. So asking Molly to show up at someone's door empty handed on Christmas day was completely against the way she was raised. She would sooner arrive at Baker Street in her underthings. _Bugger! _Why did her dressing gown keep trying to gap at the front? She quickly fixed the problem, narrowly avoiding a major beverage spill.

Sherlock held a large box up to his ear and shook it lightly, producing a rattling sound of glass. "Curious. It feels like a box of canning jars, but the weight is wrong. Why are you giving Mary canning jars? She's never professed an interest in cooking beyond the basics needed for survival."

"I'm not too keen on cooking either. That's why it's the perfect gift. I filled jars with dry ingredients for soups and desserts and stuck the recipe on each one. All she need do is add a few wet ingredients and follow the directions for quick meals. I thought she'd appreciate a time saver."

"John can cook. He does this thing with peas." Sherlock stated putting the box back under the tree. He proceeded to pick up another gift, holding it near to his face and closing one eye to inspect it with the other.

"Yes. It's called opening a can." Molly snorted. "This is something they will _both_ enjoy."

"Interesting. You could have just purchased some restaurant gift cards with the same results. In fact it would be a superior gift, completely eliminating the need to cook."

"Gift cards are okay, but this is better. It's more personal."

Sherlock shook his head and tossed the gift back in the pile.

Molly carried the drinks over to the Christmas tree and Sherlock looked up, patting the floor to indicate that she should join him there.

She handed Sherlock his drink and carefully arranged herself, sitting primly on the floor facing him. Sipping her drink, she stole a look at the consulting detective through lowered lashes. He was still eyeing the presents and Molly laughed. Sherlock looked up from his study and gave her a questioning look.

"It's just that I've made a deduction about you, though I guess it's a bit obvious."

"What is it." Sherlock asked, bemused.

"It's just that I realized your parents must have had a hell of a time keeping your presents a secret! I bet you figured them all out long before Christmas morning." A glow of fairy light's from the tree surrounded Sherlock like an aura. He was grinning, one of his rare genuine smiles. The skin around his eyes crinkled in such a fascinating way that Molly wished he would smile that way all of the time.

And he seemed very proud of the troubles he caused his poor parents because he spent a good deal of time telling Molly in great detail, just how challenging he had been, running down a list of measures his family had taken in order to prevent him from discovering his gifts. The list included locked rooms, safes and hiding gifts at neighbors houses, but it took his parents threatening to let Mycroft pick all of his presents for the rest of his life to get him to stop.

"Of course by then, I could guess the contents of most packages by sight so looking for them had become dull."

"What about gifts from Father Christmas?" Molly asked. "Did your family do that?"

"Yes, yes we did. As a child, I remember sitting under the tree on Christmas Eve." Sherlock said, taking a sip of his drink. "My father always had a bit of whimsy about him and tried to convince me that Father Christmas was real. I refused to believe him. And, of course Mummy didn't try to dissuade me from my convictions. Always practical one, Mummy."

Molly watched Sherlock as he reminisced. This was quite a fascinating and rare treat, as Sherlock rarely spoke of his childhood and she was very interested in gaining some insight on her quirky friend. John had told her about how shockingly normal Sherlock's parents appeared to be, and she found herself wondering about this frequently. How could two normal people produce offspring like Sherlock and Mycroft? She wished she could meet them herself someday, though the opportunity seemed very unlikely to occur in her lifetime.

"I knew," Sherlock continued, "That if I could just stay right there under the tree all night, I would prove once and for all, the true identity of the person responsible for the gifts placed there each year."

"How old were you then?" Molly asked.

"I was five years old, far too old to believe in a mythical man delivering toys to millions of children in one night."

Molly thought of her insistent belief in lovable old St. Nicholas that went well beyond any typical age for such fanciful thinking. And that was excluding the years she went along with the story after she had discovered the truth because it was all too much fun to dismiss.

"Five is just a baby, Sherlock. How could you be so cynical at such a young age?"

"It wasn't cynicism, at all." Sherlock shook his head, smile still on his lips. "I remember feeling thrilled by the idea of gathering evidence. Five might be young, but I was already receiving tutoring in Math, Science, History and Violin."

"Incredible! Of course, I should have known."

"Yes." Sherlock smiled. "But it was no easy task with Mycroft working against me. Of course he had the advantage of age." Sherlock sipped his drink, plucking out the candy cane, finally submitting to it's sugary seduction and giving it an enthusiastic lick.

"And a later bed time." He added.

"They rallied forces, my parents and Mycroft, and it took all three of them to get me to bed that Christmas Eve. But in the end, I managed to sneak down to our sitting room and I saw my father in the act of laying out our gifts." Sherlock looked out the window at the snow which was coming down thickly now. "Initially I felt elated, but it's odd how sentimental one can get around the holidays. Even_ I _was not always immune to it, Molly. My original plan was to pop out and surprise my Father."

"What stopped you?" Molly crossed her legs stretched out in front of her on the floor.

"It was strange, but I remember clearly, imagining his look of disappointment. I decided to give him another year of believing he had been successful in pulling off his charade."

"That was very nice of you, Sherlock."

"Was it? Yes, I suppose it was. Well I was only a child, after all." He explained.

"My sister and I tried staying up on Christmas Eve too." Molly smiled. "But somehow we always woke up in our own beds Christmas morning."

"Drugged?"

Molly laughed heartily at that, but when she looked at Sherlock, she saw he was serious. She just stared at him for a moment. "Um, I _don't_ think so. Why? Is that what Mycroft did to you?"

"Hm, I do have my suspicions." Sherlock said arching his brow. "However, I lack physical evidence. Concealment has always been his forte."

Molly just shook her head. "You and Mycroft are really unbelievable, you know?"

"How so?"

"Because you have these devoted loving parents and you should be with them right now. Why are you here with me, Sherlock? You _have _a family!"

"They understand how important my work is to me, Molly. They have no complaints."

"Today's case was a barely a five, Sherlock. A five!" Molly held a hand out with five fingers splayed for emphasis. "You could have solved it without leaving home. Is that worth missing Christmas with your parents?"

"Hm, perhaps they might be over due for a phone call. I'll get right on that by tomorrow, the next day at the latest-"

"Sherlock!"

"Alright, alright! You've made your point. I will call them tomorrow. I promise. But it's too late to visit them as I've already accepted Mrs Hudson invitation to dinner tomorrow and she will be anticipating my attendance."

Molly continued to glare at him. Sherlock huffed.

"But, I will be sure to arrange a visit before the New Year?" He glanced at Molly again as if to be sure he was giving the correct answer.

"That's better!"

They were quiet again as Judy Garland sang her heartbreaking rendition of _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas._

"Candy Canes." Sherlock observed pulling the peppermint stick, which now formed a lethal point at one end, from his mouth.

"Well spotted. You should be a detective." Sherlock was discovering that a tipsy Molly was a bratty Molly.

"I was referring to your stockings." Sherlock used his candy can as a pointer. "They're pattern is stripes, like a candy cane. Seasonally appropriate."

Molly had become relaxed and her dressing gown had slipped open a bit. Now she hastened to pull it down and tucked her feet beneath her to hide what she was wearing. A pink blush coloured her cheeks and she made no reply to his observation.

Sherlock seemed to become engrossed in the ornaments on Molly's tree. He closely examined a sparkling purple orb as he spoke. "You never did say why you were so bothered by your Secret Santa gift. I thought you usually went in for that kind of holiday drivel?"

Molly rolled her eyes at the choice of phrasing. "Yes, I _do_. Normally, it's quite a lot of fun. But I've been having a bit of a problem with a co-worker."

Molly told the story of last years gift exchange and the massage coupons.

"So he was essentially finding a way to evade paying for a gift despite the fairly budget-consious price limit your department sets?"

"That's not it at all! It's not about the money. In fact the year I drew Mike's name, Meena helped me gift wrap everything in his office; desk, chair, printer, computer, we even wrapped each pen and those little boxes of paper clips he keeps in his drawer." Molly giggled at the memory, "It cost only the price of the wrapping paper and it took Mike half the day to unwrap everything. It was brilliant!

"It wasn't the money, Sherlock." She continued. "It was just a bit creepy, that's all."

"Giving home made coupons is creepy?" Sherlock leaned forward, trying to understand what Molly meant. "Why?"

"Well, they don't have to be creepy. I remember my sister and I making a booklet of coupons for our parents when we were kids. We filled it with favours, things like doing extra chores. We put in tasks like sweeping floors, doing dishes, cutting the grass . . . they really appreciated that gift!"

"Hm, that does seem like a rather good idea." Sherlock paused a moment and then looked excited. "Molly, I just had a thought! If your still considering a gift for me, I would quite like a coupon book of supplies for my experiments. I would love more eyes, I haven't had any in ages! And thumbs! I can never have enough thumbs! It's actually a brilliant idea!"

Molly laughed at Sherlock's exuberance. "We'll see what Santa brings. I guess it depends if you've been a good boy or not."

"I'm always good!"

"Ha! And modest too. Any way, not all coupon books are creepy. Well actually that one you want, I guess that would qualify as creepy. The thing that made it weird, Sherlock, is that I hardly know this man. I mean, sure we bump into each other occasionally at work, but that's it! A massage is a rather intimate thing to share with a stranger, don't you think?"

"Not at all. I often get a massage after a session at the boxing gym. It helps prevent muscle damage, it's wonderfully therapeutic. In fact, I don't think I've ever had a massage that wasn't from a stranger."

"I see your point, but that's a professional. It's weird when it's a person you work with. What about a foot rub?"

"Oh, you are not going to tell me that a foot massage is an intimate act!" Sherlock scoffed.

"It is! You know how I can prove it? By pointing out all the people you wouldn't want to have that kind of contact with. For example, would you give John a foot massage, if he asked for one?"

"That would depend on the circumstances. If he really needed it to function, I probably would, though I can't think of a situation where this would become necessary."

"Hm, maybe a bad example." Molly muttered to herself. "Well then, what about Greg?"

Sherlock looked at her uncomprehendingly.

"Lestrade?" Molly rolled her eyes. "Would you rub his shoulders if it would help solve a murder?"

"If it would help him focus that scattered brain of his, I just might. A massage is nothing, Molly. Really." Sherlock began to undo his shirt cuffs.

"Um, what are you doing?"

"Molly Hooper." He addressed her in a formal manner. "I am going to prove my point."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Whew, wasn't sure I would get this up today, but here it is. Thank you for all the kind words! Everyone is so very sweet! Thank you so much! Also disclaimer - blah, blah blah, you already know it. I don't own it. There's no money being made. It's just a crazy non profit hobby.**_

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><p><em>All the kin folk gather round<em>

_The lovely Christmas tree_

_Hearts are glowing full of joy_

_Sense the gifts that we're giving_

_Why can't it remain _

_Oh, all through the year?_

_(That Spirit of Christmas – Ray Charles)_

"Um, what are you doing?"

"Molly Hooper." He addressed her in a formal manner. "I am going to prove my point."

"B-by giving me a massage?" Molly stammered eyes widening in surprise.

"Well, actually, I had thought perhaps you should give me one." He began to undo the buttons of his shirt. "I could actually use one. That corpse today in the heating and cooling system; spending the whole morning crawling through ventilation shafts is hard on the back. I can feel a bit of a twinge."

He made quick work of the buttons on his shirts and began sliding it down his broad white shoulders. Molly's eyes darted around trying not to gape at his exposed flesh and she suddenly found herself seemingly as mesmerized by the tree ornaments as Sherlock had been moments before.

"O-okay . . . And you need to take off your shirt for this?" Molly said with a hint of panic creeping into her voice.

"Of course! That's how it's done, isn't it? I've never had a massage at the gym fully clothed."

Molly mouth seemed suddenly very dry and she took a large swallow of her drink as she gazed at a bare-chested Sherlock under her Christmas tree. She thought maybe all those lonely nights of the past year had some how culminated in this inconceivable moment, as if Santa had brought her some longed-for treat for being such a good girl.

"O-okay then. Sure. If th-that's what you want?"

"Yes, of course. I think once you become accustomed to this sort of contact you will have to agree with me. There's nothing _creepy _or _intimate _about giving a massage."

She clutched her dressing gown as she shuffled over, until she was kneeling behind the consulting detective. His skin looked so soft and pale, a scattering of freckles stood out against the whiteness. His muscles looked incredibly taut and his torso tapered to his slim waist.

She held out a trembling hand to touch him, but at the last minute diverted it's course, to once more snatch up the glass of Bailey's on the floor. She tossed back the contents, making a silent toast to mental fortitude and brought her hands back up to hover just over his shoulders. She could feel his body heat radiating from him without even touching.

"That was my drink, by the way." Sherlock commented.

"Oh sorry!" She gasped. "Can I get you another?" She snatched her hands away, ready to flee.

"No, it's not necessary." He popped the candy cane back into his mouth.

"Oh. Okay." Molly took a steadying breath." I'm going to start now, alright?"

"Yes, of course."

Her hands touched his skin and Sherlock flinched a little.

"Sorry!" She cried pulling her hands away.

"No, no. Your hands are just cold. They'll warm soon enough. Typically, warmed oil is employed in a professional massage, but considering the spontaneous nature of this one, I wouldn't expect you to have any laying about. Would you?"

"Um, no. I don't. Sorry."

"Not a problem. You can continue."

So once more she placed her hands on his shoulders and slowly started to work them in his flesh. His skin was warm and his muscles were hard beneath her fingers. She worked her hands from his biceps to his deltoids, working the knots of tension from his trapezius and smoothing her palms downwards.

"I can take a firmer touch." Sherlock advised and Molly worked the muscles more aggressively. "Better. Much better." Sherlock sighed, which caused about a million butterflies to take flight in the vicinity of Molly's stomach.

_Not intimate, my arse!_ Molly thought. She had an insane urge to nuzzle her face into his hair, though of course she wouldn't act upon it. This may not be affecting him, but it was doing all sorts of delicious things to her. She planned on remembering every detail to relive later. Meanwhile she kept her hands busy.

"The twinge is in my lower back, if you would, Molly." Sherlock bent his knees and wrapped his arms around them so he could lean forward and relax while giving easier access for Molly to work these muscles.

Looking down at his narrow waist she had to make a conscious effort not to gulp. Bringing her hands down, she worked his lower back, working the area thoroughly. Very thoroughly. Her hands brushed the top of his trousers and she couldn't help fantasizing about what lay beyond.

Just as she was getting carried away by forbidden images that kept forcing their way into her brain, Sherlock spoke. "You're getting quite warm now, aren't you?"

"What?!" Molly gasped. "I wasn't . . ."

"Yes, you're hands are warmed up nicely." Sherlock continued. "Just as I said they would."

"Of course!" Molly replied, a little too shrilly. She knew she was blushing and she felt a nervous sheen of sweat break out across her forehead. "Actually, it's getting a bit hot in here, don't you think.?"

"Not really. But, of course I'm not wearing as many layers as you. You can take off your dressing gown, Molly. It isn't as though I haven't seen whatever juvenile, kitten themed pajamas you're wearing beneath. The key to a good massage is comfort for all participants.

That's when Molly looked down and noticed that her dressing gown had fallen open a bit at the front. A feathery fluff of marabou peaked out. Unfortunately she couldn't tuck it away without drawing further attention to it, so she just prayed Sherlock wouldn't turn around, and kept her hands busy at their task.

"Oh, it's quite . . .quite alright. I'm comfortable just as I am, thank-you."

Sherlock shrugged and crunched the remaining bit of candy cane between his teeth..

He was staring at her tree once more. "Tell me, Molly, why do you go through all the trouble, the tree, the gifts, the music, when you obviously don't enjoy the holidays any more?"

"It's not that I don't like the holidays. There was a time when I loved them. I guess it is mostly just my stubborn optimism? I keep hoping to recapture what once was, but no longer exists, at least not for me."

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment. "And when was the last time you enjoyed Christmas, then?"

Molly thought about this for a moment before answering. It was very personal, her feelings surrounding the holidays and she was a little hesitant to share, particularly with Sherlock as she really didn't expect him to understand. But listening to him speak of his own childhood and now with her fingers working his muscles she couldn't help but to feel safe enough to open up a little.

"It wasn't so very long ago, really. Even after uni, after I got my first job, I still returned home for Christmas every year. We all gathered, my Mum, my Dad, and my sister Sarah. There were never a group of adults so enthusiastic about the holidays." Her hands moved as she spoke, traveling up Sherlock's back to return to his shoulders.

It was easier now, as she recalled visions of holidays long ago. She worked the area around his neck and he sat straight tilting his head to one side, making it clear where he wanted her hands by way of his posture. So she concentrated her efforts on his left shoulder, rubbing the tension away from deltoid to trapezius and even felt brave enough to risk smoothing a hand over his collar bone. And clearly he approved, if the way he relaxed into her touch was any indication.

"We didn't do anything halfway, the Hooper clan." She continued. "Do it right or not it at all, that's the Hooper motto. You would not believe the ordeal of cutting down the family Christmas tree!"

Molly described how every year they would travel by car to a tree farm to cut down their own holiday tree and how it always lead into the same predictable debate, arguing the merits of long needle versus short needle, or what height was the perfect tree, given the space they had available. They would argue about how wide it should be or if the branches were full enough until finally, each person took the opportunity to point out some imperfection in the tree chosen by another family member. And how in the end, it didn't matter because every year the tree was declared perfect regardless as to which one was chosen.

"Your fond holiday memories consist of arguments over minor differences of opinion on what constitutes a perfect tree?"

"Well, it wasn't a real argument, it was all in good fun. No one was really angry." Molly explained. "That's the great thing about family. When you can comfortably have an opinion and not feel defensive about it, you must really be home."

"Interesting theory." said Sherlock softly. He seemed pensive, as Molly went on to praise her Mother's abilities in the kitchen for several minutes.

"But Christmas Eve was always my favourite. The four of us would exchange one gift that night. It was always silly Christmas pajamas." Molly took a second to hazard a look down at the white feathery fluff peeping out of her dressing gown before continuing. "It became a tradition to have a sort of pajama party. We slept in the sitting room with the lights all lit on the tree. It was beautiful." Molly sighed. "We would keep waking each other up to see if it was time to open presents. Didn't matter that the Hooper kids were in our twenties. It was fun. And Mum and Dad were the biggest kids of all!"

Molly's hands paused on Sherlock's shoulders. "The last Christmas I truly enjoyed was the year before Dad got sick. The next year he was barely recognizable. He had become so thin and his hair was all gone. He had always been so strong. He was my Daddy-." Molly bite her lip, hard, in attempt to stop herself from crying.

"He couldn't be this frail old man, could he?" She said in a choked voice. Before Molly could catch it, a tear fell from her cheek and splashed on Sherlock's back where it continued there on it's downward track. His hand reached over his shoulder and clasped hers and Molly looked at it with some surprise. What was this? Sherlock didn't do comforting, did he?

He cleared his throat obviously not quite sure what to say, but his hand remained on hers

He broke the silence after some moments had passed. "You're really quite good at this." He commented in reference to her abilities as a masseuse. "I'd dare say there is a career for you if ever the glamour of pathology dims." He glanced back at her hand under his. "It's not surprising considering the skill in which you wield the tools of your trade."

Molly could see a tiny smile touch Sherlock lips, as she gazed at his profile in the soft glow of the Christmas tree. "Your hands have a great talent." He continued. "Despite their puny size."

Molly smiled in response. "How about you, Sherlock? I know Christmas isn't really your thing. When did it happen for you? Was it after you saw your Dad putting out the presents?"

"No, no, it wasn't that. I might not have been fooled by the mythology of the holidays, but there was a time I rather enjoyed them. But that was a very long time ago."

"Won't you tell me about it?" Molly pleaded.

"I try not to wallow in pointless nostalgia, Molly. It's not a particularly productive state of mind, is it? My weeping over sentiment of an unrecoverable past is not going to turn back the clock." Sherlock unknowingly echoed her thoughts of earlier that evening.

"No. You're right. But, I still want to know. Maybe you could call it your gift to me? I can't help feeling curious. I really can't figure you out. You're family sounds wonderful to me!"

"There's nothing essentially wrong with them other than being a bit boring. In fact, I have a feeling your Mum might like mine. She still makes enough food to feed five families every year. No wonder Mycroft has such a sweet tooth. Someday I will have to show you Mycroft's childhood pictures. Of course he would call it baby fat, but we both know the truth, and that is his weakness for Mummy's cakes and tarts. He would be indignant at showing you, which would make it all the more enjoyable!"

"Well then, you wish to hear the story of how I lost the Christmas spirit?" Sherlock mused for a moment before continuing. "Home was never the source of my problems. In fact it had always proven to be a safe haven. You might find this hard to believe, Molly, but I wasn't very popular at school."

"No!" Molly replied with a sarcasm that was entirely missed.

"Yes, it's true. If Mycroft is better at anything, it would be his ability to hide his differences. He is capable of blending with the general public. He can make himself seem normal and average. He can even make himself seem likeable – though I assure you, he is not." Again Molly could see Sherlock was smiling.

"To find myself suddenly ridiculed after coming from, what you would call, an accepting home environment - it certainly was an eye opening experience. I was under the impression that because I was intellectually superior to my classmates, it afforded me special treatment. Special treatment in this case meaning admiration, adoration, and therefore acceptance. I quickly learned that it can also mean, ridicule, taunting and torment. My last enjoyable Christmas was when I was 8 years old. The next year I was sent away to school and I learned that not everyone appreciates someone who observes. After, I learned that home was but a temporary reprieve, all too transient. It was a false comfort for a child that knows that when he returns, so will the boys who locked him in the toilets because he was quicker to answer the chemistry quiz. And also the boys who were older and bigger and knew how to place punches without leaving marks."

"Oh, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's hand still lay over Molly's as he looked out at the dark night.

"It was really for the best, in the end. There were lessons to be learned from the experience. Enlightenment often comes with the trials in life. I learned independence, strength in solitude. And I learned to fight, to not be defeated just because I was outsized or out numbered."

"You poor thing." Molly whispered.

Sherlock twisted his body around to look at her, though he didn't drop his hand away from hers. It was disconcerting, for it made it feel as though they were nearly in an embrace.

"What do you mean by _you poor thing?" _Sherlock eyes narrowed, confused by her words.

"It means," Molly said softly. "That I feel great empathy for you and it makes me sad when I think of what a cruel lesson you had to learn at such a young age."

"You mean pity?" His tone darkened.

"No, not pity. Empathy. It's different then pity." Molly spoke in a hushed tone and Sherlock seemed impossibly close, his face inches from hers.

"Sometimes a little empathy is all we need. I'm so sorry that happened to you. You were just a child, it's not fair you had to feel so alone. That poor little boy."

Sherlock was looking thoughtfully into Molly's eyes processing all she was saying.

"Molly?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry about your Father. I should have said that a long time ago, I apologize, it was rude of me."

Molly didn't recall moving, but now she found his face was only an inch from her own. His features filled her entire awareness. Her eyes were wide and she felt a strange disorientation.

His hand clutched hers now and he brought the other hand to her cheek. "I'm sorry for your loss, Molly Hooper." Molly couldn't stop another tear from spilling from her brimming eyes.

"Thank you Sherlock." She whispered. "That means more than I can express."

The fallen tear clung to Molly's lip and Sherlock seemed transfixed by it, swiping the tear away with his thumb before his eyes returned to hers. They stared at one another unmoving for some time when Sherlock broke the silence once more.

"Curious."

"What is curious?"

"I can not explain it." Sherlock breathed. "But I . . . I think I would like to kiss you."


	6. Chapter 6

**_I really plan on thanking each reviewer individually, but I really, really, rrrrrrrrreally wanted to get this chapter out there first! There is one more to come. BUT, I have a MAJOR epilogue planned. More on that later. Oh gosh, I hope you like it. I'm forging into new territory here, having only written very little sexy stuff so far. Please let me know if you think I didn't entirely flub it up . . . I'm frightened! Also a warning - I didn't take quite as much time editing so hopefully there aren't too many mistakes . . . Also disclaimer I don't own the characters and am only slightly ashamed of what I have done to them, haha!_**

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><p><em>Sleigh bells ring<em>

_Are you listening_

_In the lane_

_Snow is glistening_

_A beautiful sight_

_We're happy tonight_

_Walking in a winter wonderland_

_(Winter Wonderland - Goldfrapp)_

"Curious."

"What is curious?"

"I can not explain it." Sherlock breathed. "But I . . . I think I would like to kiss you." His eyes moved from her eyes to her lips. "May I?"

The butterflies now felt more like a swarm of giant dragonflies going on a riotous rampage in her belly.

"Yes." She answered. "I want you to . . .to kiss me."

He leaned in slowly until his lips brushed hers ever so softly. They only sounds were the hard pellets of snow spatting against the windows and soft Christmas music expounding upon the virtues of sleigh bells and glistening snowy lanes.

_Birds, _Molly amended her previous thought, _not dragonflies. Birds, a very large flock, by the feel._

Was swooning something that really happened to people? If so, that must be what was happening to her. It felt gorgeous, but at the same time, overwhelming. It was a moment she had dreamed of for such a long time, but had never really thought might ever become a reality as she found herself sinking into the warm embrace of Sherlock Holmes.

There was a part of her that was terrified that Sherlock would stop at any second, recognizing a moment of weakness from which he would run, at any moment now. They whole conversation had felt surreal, had they really shared Christmas memories and tender moments of childhood? If so, that was what she really wanted more than anything else. The rarest gift was witnessing him open before her and if giving in to this moment, with his lips, soft and warm against hers, somehow negated all of that which had happened that evening, then it wouldn't be worth it.

But Sherlock didn't stop. In fact his lips softened and parted and she felt his tongued gently push between her own lips. It was so sweet and gentle, something she had never imagined his kisses to be. In her fantasies he was dominating and cold. He took what he wanted and she submitted gladly in those dreams. She had never imagined becoming so lost in their sweetness. It made Molly's head swirl with giddiness like some romantic heroine in an old black and white film from long ago.

And she was utterly confused to find she was no longer kneeling next time him, but reclined across his lap in the supported circle of his arms. Though she could not recall how she had ended up there, she was very aware of the kisses as they became deeper and deeper, until she felt they were melting into one another. He tasted like candy canes.

It was the most gorgeous feeling and went on and on until she wasn't sure if it had been minutes or hours or days, but somehow they were lying on the floor, gifts scattered around them, under the beautiful lights of the tree that twinkled above them. Their limbs were tangled together and the music was now accompanied by the sound of soft sighs and quickened breath. Molly felt like she would be quite happy to go on kissing Sherlock for an eternity, listening to the lovely hums he made against her mouth.

Sherlock pulled away to look down at Molly, lips parted, eyes unreadable and he let his gaze wander down the length of her body. Molly's dressing gown had fallen open entirely and suddenly Sherlock eyes widened with a look of surprise. When his eyes returned to her face Molly saw the way his lips pressed together with suppressed merriment. She looked down at herself suddenly remembering what she had put on long before Sherlock had arrived that evening.

It was the Secret Santa gift. The one that was For That Special Someone.

"Um, I can explain this." Molly said, sure she must be bright red.

She wore a red velvety push up bra trimmed in fluffy white marabou. And the knickers and suspenders matched, with red velvet and white feathery trim on both. To top it off there were the candy cane stripped stockings with red ribbons at the tops, fastened to the suspenders.

"I mean, I didn't put this on for you . . . What I mean to say is I didn't _know _you were coming so I couldn't possibly have done this with some ulterior motive - that is not to say, of course, that I put this on for any one else. I was just alone and there was the Secret Santa gift and I- I -I . . . aren't you going to say anything?" Molly looked up at Sherlock whose face was contorting in a strained effort. He finally succumbed to a fit of laughter.

Molly scowling, started to push him away. "Wait, wait, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. You're explanation was just too-." He giggled some more. "But really you look very very festive. Seasonally appropriate I would go as far to say." Molly arched an eyebrow at him with more than a bit of skepticism.

"Did you know that marabou originally comes from the down of the Marabou stork? It's sometimes referred to as the Undertaker stork because of the shape of the wings, giving it the appearance of a dark cloaked gentleman. But today most marabou is obtained form the down of turkeys, which only increases the seasonal theme of your costume." Molly was looking at Sherlock unbelievingly, listening to his little lesson as they lay on the floor, disheveled from snogging, legs still tangled together.

"Yes, seasonally appropriate," Sherlock continued. "Considering all the turkey traditionally consumed at this time of year . . . And . . . and it really isn't the time for this. Is it?" Sherlock finished lamely.

"BUT!" Sherlock continued with renewed enthusiasm "It makes you the prettiest Christmas package I ever dreamed to open?" He grimaced briefly before flashing her a hopeful grin. It made him look years younger. Molly's heart melted all over again.

"So, you want to see what's beneath the wrappings, eh?" She smirked up at him. "Well, maybe."

"Maybe?" He lowered his body over hers dropping a wet kisses along the length of her neck

"Ooh," she moaned. "Um, possibly."

"Possibly?" Sherlock licked a path across her clavicle and peppered the exposed portion of her breasts with tiny kisses.

"Mmmm, most certainly. Please do. I want you to . . . undress me!" Molly gasped.

With permission granted Sherlock carefully reached behind her to unclasp the cheery bra. He pulled it away and tossed it over his shoulder.

"Oh Molly." Sherlock breathed as his eyes took in the sight of her. And she knew then that what he saw pleased him greatly.

Molly buried her hands in his soft curls and moaned as he kissed her breasts, taking each in turn, into his mouth, swirling a tongue around each peaked nipple, before returning to her lips where their tongues danced once more. A hand caressed it's way down her abdomen until his fingers stole their way beneath the red velvet and fluff. She felt his fingers brush past her curls and slip into her wetness. She gasped at the touch of his clever hands.

"Molly?"

"Y-yes?"

"I would like to taste you? May I?" He whispered. Molly looked into his face and her heart hammered at the open, hungry expression he gave her.

"Yes. I want you to. . . I want you to taste me."

He blazed a trail of kisses down her body that left her trembling with want. He caressed her hips and bottom as he kneeled between her legs and carefully, ever so slowly he pulled her knickers down past her striped stockinged legs, over her feet and tossing them over his shoulder like the bra. His eyes never leaving hers until they were discarded. Finally his gaze moved to her cunt and the look on his face transformed into that of a starving man looking at holiday feast.

Molly had never felt more aroused then when she witnessed that expression on Sherlock's face. With his hands on her thighs, he pushed her legs further apart and lowered his mouth to her wet cleft. He gave a contented moan as he slide his tongue slowly across her slit, once, twice, three times before burying his face between her legs in earnest.

It was as if the air had been stolen from the room, her eyes clamped shut and Molly was left gasping for breath, her hands grappling for purchase until they found their way into Sherlock's curls once more, where they anchored there, holding on for dear life.

When she opened her eyes once more, she was again struck by the surrealism of it all. Was there any way she could have predicted a Christmas eve that would see her lying beneath the twinkling fairy lights and sparkling tinsel of her Christmas tree with Sherlock Holmes lapping her cunt with beautiful enthusiasm? Gazing down the length of her body, her eyes fell upon the impossibly lovely sight of that dark curly head between her legs, it was something she had hardly permitted herself to dream.

Oh, he was good. If his kisses were the most sensual she had ever felt, that went doubly so for the kisses he now bestowed upon her most intimate of places. He licked circled around her clit and drove his tongue deep into her centre, before returning to to her clit once more. He used his chin and nose in ways she never would have imagined. It was as if he couldn't get enough of her and it wasn't any surprise that she was coming hard on his tongue a short time later, calling his name loudly.

He continued placing gentle kisses on her sensitive nub as she crested her peak and slowly returned to Earth. When he emerged from between her legs Molly thought he had never looked more beautiful. He looked almost as undone as she felt. His cheeks were pink, his hair wild from where her hands clung while he had lapped up her juices. Her wetness was visible around his mouth. His eyes were on fire with desire for her. Once again her heart thudded wildly in her chest

She sat up enough to grasp his face between her hands and pull him in for a deep kiss. He pulled away briefly to look at her.

"I never knew a woman could taste so divine. Can you taste it, Molly? When you kissed me now, did you taste how delicious you are?"

Sherlock's body was shaking, his arms trembled beneath her hands as she caressed him.

"I want to be inside you, Molly. May I?" His voice deepened to impossible depths and Molly felt it like a physical force.

"Yes. I want you to . . . I want to feel you inside me. Please hurry!"

Together they scrambled to get Sherlock's trousers and pants off. There was little grace and much desperation to the action, but soon his clothing was kicked away. Molly gasped at the sight of him, his body, long and pale, his beautiful cock, standing thick and hard and ready for her. She curled a hand around it and began to slide it up and down its length, loving the feeling of the hard hot flesh in the palm of her hand.

"Molly!" Sherlock gasped. "I don't think I'll last long if you keep doing that!"

Molly released him and he slide up the length of her body to settle between the V of her candy cane striped legs, his cock pressed against her slick opening and they fell back into a deep kiss.

With a shaking hand he grasped himself and swirled his cock in her wetness before pushing the tip into her opening. He pushed a second time, halfway and then once again all the way in, until he was fully immersed in Molly. They moaned in unison and Sherlock kissed her deeply.

Exercising what Molly thought must be the control of a zen master he began to move in such gorgeous, teasingly slow movements, not only sliding in and out but with a clever little rotation of his hips as well. Now she knew exactly what she wanted to feel forever because now that she once again had Sherlock's sweet kisses on her lips and his body making hers feel such wonderful sensations, she couldn't imagine anything more perfect than this.

She could feel herself climbing to another peak when Sherlock gasped. "I don't think I can maintain control much longer!"

"Don't. Don't try. I want you to lose control. I want to feel you come inside me. Please!" And with that she wrapped her legs around his hips.

Sherlock stared thrusting into her in earnest, his movement punctuated with his rich deep moans. His cock plunged into her over and over again until his motions started to become erratic.

"Oh! Molly! Oh!" Sherlock's hips spasmed as his orgasm hit him, his body trembling violently in his throes and Molly tumbled right along after him.

"Jesus! Oh Sherlock! Jesus! Ah!"

They collapsed into a heap, and exchanged lazy kisses for several minutes as their breathing and heart-rates calmed. Again Sherlock broke the silence first.

"You know, they say that Jesus is the reason for the season. I feel like I've gained a new insight on that."

Molly giggled. "I think owe my Secret Santa a thank-you."

Sherlock kissed Molly once more and replied. "You're welcome."


	7. Chapter 7

_**And here it is. The final chapter. It was so much fun to write! I've adored the comments, they were all so sweet and kind! I've never written anything as quickly in my life and I really worried about messing it up. Now it is time for the final mystery to be revealed. What did Molly give Sherlock the Christmas of 2010? Some of you will know right away why Molly chose to give him THAT! Others will say why oh why would she do that?! I will explain. See you at the bottom! (Disclaimer - You know the drill)**_

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><p>The moon is right<p>

The spirit's up

We're here tonight

And that's enough

Simply having a wonderful Christmas time.

(Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time – Paul McCartney)

Molly giggled. "I think I owe my Secret Santa a thank-you."

Sherlock kissed her again, this time with comically pursed lips and an exaggerated smacking sound and replied. "You're welcome."

Molly continued to luxuriate in this post-coital cuddle before Sherlock's words sank in. Then she slowly pulled her face away from him and stared at him for a moment as she tried to process what he had said.

"What?" Molly squinted at the man in her arms. "I'm sorry, I think endorphins and oxytocin are affecting my hearing. It sounded like you were claiming to be my Secret Santa?"

"I was. I am" Sherlock tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and kissed the tip of her nose.

She pulled back a little further. "But to be in the Lab and Pathology Secret Santa gift exchange, you have to actually work there."

"No you don't. Well,_ I _don't, it would seem." He said in a smug tone. "Stamford tries to badger me into the ridiculous ritual every year. Something about me being an honoury team member since I am a permanent fixture of the department. I usually manage to avoid involvement. But when he cornered me last month, during that chemical asphyxiation double homicide case, I thought to myself, why not?"

"And you just happened to draw my name?" Molly asked.

"Wwwwell-" Sherlock began.

"Wait!" Molly interrupted. "Wait just a second – you've been teasing me all day long about the gift! Was this . . . you're not saying all of this . . . this . . ?" Molly pointed a finger and drew a line in the air from herself to Sherlock. "This wasn't planned was it?"

"No." Sherlock shook his head vehemently. "NO! You misunderstand me, Molly." Sherlock looked distressed at Molly's increasing agitation.

She started to disentangle herself from the consulting detective. "Because if this was some sort of a plot or . . . an experiment . . . I just have to say-" Molly was trying to gather the sides of her dressing gown to pull around her.

"Wait Molly! Let me explain!" He grasped her wrist before she could roll away. "How can I make you understand? It's like you were saying before. I didn't do this with some ulterior motive in mind. Think! Does that seem like something I would be capable of doing? You must believe me!"

"But, I don't understand!"

"So few do." Sherlock sighed. "But it was meant as an innocent and entirely harmless joke."

"Oh great, you're saying _this_ is a joke? That's NOT helping your case!" Molly pulled her wrist from Sherlock's grasp.

"But Molly, it was only in response to a similar prank you played on me."

"When? I've never done any such thing!" Molly was indignant at the accusation.

"Christmas, 2010."

Molly was silent for some moments before responding. "Oh."

"Yes." Sherlock said. "Oh."

"You actually opened it?"

"Yup." Sherlock said, popping the p.

"But wait, you don't do jokes!"

"I joke all the time Molly! People think I'm quite witty."

Molly just stared at him for a moment before continuing.

"And you waited four years to get back at me?"

Wwwwell . . . actually, closer to four months."

"Okay, I don't get it. Could you explain, please?"

"Originally, I _had_ forgotten about your gift. I am truly sorry, Molly." He took her hand in his, stroking the back of her fingers with his thumb. "But that is the truth. Four months ago Mrs Hudson was cleaning the flat – odd how she always insists that she is not the housekeeper, though she can't resist the temptation to tidy - she came across your gift. She was quite upset when she saw it was unopened, struck me with her broom even! She packs quite the wallop for a someone with degenerative arthritis of the hip." Sherlock rubbed the top of his head with the memory.

"She lectured me for an hour. I hadn't received such a scolding since the one I received from Mummy the time I concocted a malodorant chemical compound that I set off in Mycroft's room. He was so sick! It was marvolous. And no permanent damage done, so I don't see why everyone got so angry. You see, Molly? I've always been a bit of a prankster!" He cocked a brow in his self amusement.

"But, back to your gift, Molly. I never would have guessed the contents of the package, that is a rare thing indeed!"

"Oh God! I'm so embarrassed! What you must have thought of me?"Molly brought her free hand to her eyes, covering them, as if by blocking Sherlock from her field of vision she might hide away her shame. Sherlock would have none of that and pulled her hand away so she could see his smile.

"Actually, I don't remember the last time I laughed as much. It was completely unexpected! I always thought you would be either traditional, cufflinks or perhaps a pen. Or you might devise a gift that was more in line with our working relationship. That coupon book - by the way, still a great idea – would have fit this expectation perfectly."

"But a Christmas themed _mankini, _Molly? Utterly unexpected!" That broad, eye crinkling grin made another appearance.

Molly tried to cover her face with both hands this time. "Can I claim temporary insanity? It was just an in-the-moment sort of decision. I was doing a bit of holiday shopping online and I just happened to come across it. And I just thought, wouldn't it be funny if – but after that night I just hoped you hadn't opened it, after you said those things to me – well . . . I couldn't imagine what you might think of me"

Sherlock pulled her hands away placing them over his shoulders and nuzzled his face into her neck. "I am so sorry for those things I said to you Molly." He whispered in her ear. "It was cruel, I get that way sometimes. I don't understand what you see in me."

Molly pulled away a bit to peek up at him. "I see a man that would look pretty cute in a Christmas themed mankini." She smirked. And Sherlock laughed hugging her tightly.

Molly hugged him back for awhile before speaking again. "The one thing I still don't understand is how you drew my name. What are the chances?"

"Very high when rigged to render desired results."

"You fixed the draw? How? Wait, I don't think I want to know."

"Suffice it to say, it was a very close call. Your Secret Santa would most certainly have been David Hughes again. Instead, he got Sherlock Holmes. I wonder what he got me? It was in an envelope in my jacket.

"Oh, I need to see this!" Molly giggled. As she jumped up from the floor, her dressing gown slipped off her shoulders and she let it fall away entirely, unaware of the effect she was having on Sherlock as she skipped across her sitting room clad only in suspenders and striped stockings. She grabbed Sherlock's jackets returned to the floor, sitting beside Sherlock's reclined form.

Sherlock pulled out the envelope and ripped it open. A thick booklet fell out and he picked it up to read the first page. "One Free massage to be administered by David Hughes to be redeemed any date previous to January 1, 2016." Sherlock looked at Molly. "Hm, I always miss something, don't I"

"Well that_ is_ a thoughtful gift now isn't it?" Molly spoke in a mock serious tone. "Personal – though not too personal. And certainly not intimate." She pounced on the consulting detective, straddling his body as he lay there laughing with her.

"I think I might have to give the whole idea of massages more thought. It seems that there are certain circumstances where it is rather more intimate than I had previously thought." Sherlock pulled her down and kissed her deeply. Molly ground herself against Sherlock hardening cock and they both moaned.

"So, if you knew I was wearing this all night." Molly asked when they parted. "Why did you look so surprised when you saw it?"

"I really did mean it as a joke, Molly. When I noticed your stocking clad feet – the moment I entered your flat, by the way - I was surprised to learn that you had actually donned the items. And when I saw you. I was rather taken by . . . how much I liked seeing it on you. I really hadn't expected that kind of reaction. It's just clothing, after all."

"Clothing can enhance attraction, Sherlock. Isn't that the reason for those tight trousers and button-straining shirts?"

"Button-straining? Molly." Sherlock explained. "My clothing is tailored to fit, that is all. My only intention is to present a professional appearance."

"Is that so? There is no thought whatsoever about how incredible it makes your arse look?"

"Incredible?"

"Absolutely incredible. Distracting even."

"Fascinating!" Sherlock muttered to himself. "The effect that clothing can have on human sexuality. This may also require more research!" He looked up at Molly still sitting astride him. "Of course a certain state of undress is also desirable." He slid his hands up her hips across her waist until he cupped her pert breasts. Molly stroked her palms in gentle circles around his smooth chest as they spent a ridiculous amount of time just gazing into each others eyes.

"Molly?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Tradition is important to you, is it not?"

"Yes. It's comforting having rituals to perform each year. It's nice to have something to look forward to and get excited about, to anticipate the days leading up to it. It's lovely and gives life purpose. It's those silly, happy moments that make life good."

"I've never understood traditions myself, but if they were anything like tonight. I could see a certain value in them. And after all, Christmas comes but once a year."

"A traditional tryst under the Christmas tree, eh?" She leaned forward to snogged him soundly for a minute before continuing. "It's true Christmas comes but once a year, and apparently so does Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock grabbed Molly's hips and pushed his cock, once more as hard as rock, grinding it into her and making her gasp.

"On that last point, I can prove you wrong, Molly Hooper. In fact, I think if you are amendable, there is still 14 hours before Mrs Hudson is expecting us." He brought her in for another deep kiss. And Molly lifted her body to reach between her legs and grasp his cock to stroke it. Sherlock moaned deliciously.

"And that is only if we are on time. Christmas traffic can be so treacherous."

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><p><em><strong>So the mankini, otherwise known as the Borat thong, haha! That one is Louise Brealey's contribution actually. She was once asked in an interview, what she thought Molly had given Sherlock. That was her answer. She's such a hoot!<strong>_

_** I've put together a youtube playlist for the music chosen for this story. If anyone wants the address, send me a message, I will pass it on. I didn't credit the writers of the songs at the top of each chapter, only the version of the song I visualized for the setting. **_

_**Any way, I have an epilogue planned. I don't know if I will post it here or make a new story under a new title? Opinions? Probably doesn't matter which way though, I guess. **_

_**Thanks for reading! Happy Holidays!**_


	8. Chapter 8

**_I'm Baaaack. And so the epilogue begins. That's right. It's multi chaptered and I'm putting it right here, so it wasn't the end after all, haha! Now each chapter will be an independent story and I'll keep going until I stop feeling christmassy (is that a word?) The song choice - I'll explain at the bottom as it may not seem very fitting. But I think it's kind of sweet._**

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><p><em>A face o<em>_n __a lover with a fire in his heart_

_A man under cover but you tore __me__ apart_

_Now I've found a real love_

_You'll never fool me again_

_(Last Christmas – Pupini Sisters)_

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><p>One year later . . .<p>

It's funny how traditions start, some random event sets up a pattern, urging the participants to repeat them at set and established intervals. Of course the appeal of the act and the importance placed upon it, increase the likelihood that it will become a tradition. This is how it begins.

After that Christmas, it might seem surprising that Sherlock and Molly did not fall immediately into a continuing sexual relationship. By all appearances, they fell back into their old patterns of behaviour. If any had noticed the pair arriving together for Mrs Hudson's Christmas dinner, a little disheveled and somewhat distracted, no one made mention of it. And if Sherlock was uncharacteristically responsive to Molly's requests of _please pass the salt_ or_ could I have a bit more gravy_, well it went unnoticed in the chaotic joy of the little gathering. And Greg surprised everyone by bringing Meena – Mrs Hudson, ever the good hostess was of the-more-the-merrier mind set - both looking a little hungover, which had probably diverted any observations away from Sherlock and Molly.

As January progressed and the holiday madness faded, Molly and Sherlock fell back into their old working relationship. Or so it had seemed at first.

There was a significant difference however and John Watson was quick to pick up on that. It was small things at first. Sherlock took greater care in his choice of words when it came to working with Molly. He seemed especially careful to not say hurtful things which was no easy task for a man that rarely connected how the things he said affected people, especially in regards to damaged feelings.

John noticed an increase in eye contact between the two, as well. Previously, Sherlock had always seemed too distracted by the case he was working and Molly eyes had always darted away from his, nervously when ever they spoke at length. That had changed. Now they would sometimes share a gaze that would leave John wondering. And didn't it seem as if they sometimes shared a smile that appeared oddly . . . smug? On a couple of occasions, John had come upon the pair unannounced and they were locked in that staring contest with little smiles on their lips and didn't Molly's expression seem almost . . . coy? John shook his head and dismissed it. It couldn't be what he thought. Frankly he didn't think Sherlock had it in him to solve the mystery of romance.

But as the months passed John only saw an increase in the shared looks. That was fine, but even more disturbing was the covert ogling. John tried to keep silent on the issue, but after almost a year of this behaviour, he stood and watched his friend as he positively leered at Molly's arse as her form retreated from the room. Once she was out of ear shot John turned on Sherlock.

"Alright Sherlock. That's enough. Why don't you just shag her and be done with it!"

"What ever are talking about, John?" Sherlock gave his friend a peculiar, guarded sidelong glance.

"Molly Hooper. You're staring at her arse, you _arse_!" John practically shouted.

"I _am _not!" Sherlock exclaimed, sounding completely indignant.

"Yes, you are. You are, Sherlock! I'm not blind. There are a few things I'm actually capable of observing. And what's more, is that Molly's doing the exact the same thing! "

"What do mean by that, John? I really think you have an overly active imagination." The consulting detective seemed to dismiss John's accusations.

"What I mean is that she's staring at your arse as much as you're staring at hers!"

"Is she, now? Interesting . . ." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Yes she is! Don't think I haven't noticed the looks you keep giving each other. And if I didn't know better I would have said there was something going on between the two of you. I feel like I'm back at a bloody school dance. It's ridiculous! You're both adults. So I say again, why not shag and get it over with!"

Sherlock was silent for a few moments before replying in a subdued tone. "What makes you think we haven't?"

"What?" John turned back quickly, brow furrowed in confusion.

"What makes you think we haven't – what was that eloquent term? Oh yes, _shagged?"_

John gaped and spluttered, trying to form a response. "I, well that is, you don't . . . do you?"

"Don't I?"

"But . . . married to your work, not your area, you said that, didn't you? . . . Didn't you?"

"Is it so impossible to imagine that I might crave something more in life? Is it really so at odds with who I am?" Suddenly John realized that Sherlock wasn't speaking to him. He was staring off into space, as if his question was directed inward.

He looked at Sherlock's desperate expression. "No. No, of course, it's not."

John stood and watched his friend as he seemed to be lost somewhere in his mind palace. It was true that wonders never ceased and Sherlock Holmes would never fail to surprise him.

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><p>Christmas Eve day, Sherlock spent most of the morning in the Lab working near Molly. There were more shared looks than ever before, and finally Molly asked Sherlock if he wanted to join in with the departments festivities. He had just smiled and told her no thank you, and he would see her later with out specifying exactly what he meant by that or when, but her beatific answering smile indicated that she understood the promise in those words.<p>

It had been a strange year. Sherlock understood that there was some kind of a, well a game that had somehow developed between himself and his pathologist. A game that promised to have a very, very satisfying conclusion.

It had been a year full of longing looks and secret smiles and as the year wound down, the game began to include occasions when they would share a seemingly innocent touch, but they both knew there was no accident to these occurances.

It would happen when Molly dropped a paper in the lab and Sherlock would beat her to retrieving it from the floor. He might caress her hand as he passed it to her.

Or Sherlock might forget his scarf down in the morgue and Molly would run to fetch it. She might even loop it around his neck, as if this could be just a casual gesture between friends. And her hand just might happen to trace his neck to feel the increased pulse there.

And Sherlock just might allow his hand to pause on Molly's lower back as he held a door open for her, when he saw her loaded down with a box of petri dishes. And it may have only been a coincidence that his hand might brush slowly down her bottom as he dropped his arm away.

The frequency and intensity of the game moves increased as the calendar drew nearer to Christmas.

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><p>Molly paced the length of her flat nervously that evening. She was <em>almost <em>100% sure of what would be happening that night. Or at least she was 99.99% sure. It was that .01% that had her worried and that was why she paced the room once more.

A year of smouldering smiles, hungry looks and recently those touches, her skin felt on fire with them even through the layers of her jumper and lab coat, they had left her in such a state! No wonder she jumped when the knock sounded at her door, despite the softness of the rapping.

She pulled the ties closed on her robe and hurried to the door, looking through the peep hole to see that it was indeed him. He was fidgeting and biting his lip. He looked almost nervous, but when she threw open the door, he grinned at her and it felt like the clock had turned back a year, back to that lovely night spent sharing their stories and sharing their bodies.

They stood there smiling at one another, once more becoming lost in each others eyes. And then Molly smiled hugely and backed up through her sitting room. Sherlock entered and closed the door behind him, advancing on Molly as she stood near her Christmas tree.

No words had been exchanged thus far as Molly reached for the tie on her dressing gown. She opened the gown at let it fall to the floor. There she stood, wearing that tacky Christmas lingerie once again.

Sherlock stepped towards her with a rumbling chuckled. "You know, I've never given credit to psychic phenomenon, but I believe you've read my mind."

Molly stepped forward until they were toe to toe and she boldly reached for his trousers, grasping the prominent bulge. "It wasn't your mind I was reading."

Sherlock moaned as he shrugged off his coat and jacket, letting them fall to the floor before taking Molly into his arms and swooping her in for a searing kiss. It was as Molly had remembered, only lacking the tentativeness of the first time. Soon their tongues danced together again and again, as the kisses grew deeper and hungrier.

A very long year of eye-fucking had left them longing for this moment and it was clear it was not to be slow and gentle this time. Soon their teeth were clashing and Sherlock was grasping Molly's arse and pressing his desperate need against her, so Molly pushed him roughly against wall. Several books tumbled from the shelf there, but they went unnoticed.

Together, with shaking fingers, they unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and it hung open as Molly drop to her knees in front of him. As Molly unfastened his trousers, she looked up at Sherlock, giving him the most sinful, deliciously lustful look he had ever seen on a woman and it was almost his undoing to see it was there, solely for him.

Molly hooked her fingers in his trousers and pants and released his straining erection. She pulled his clothing down his legs and realizing she had forgotten his shoes, but not feeling inclined to wait another second, she left his trousers bunched around his ankles and she moved back to his cock. She wrapped her hand around his shaft and proceed to take as much of his length as she could into her mouth. Finally tasting him, after a whole year of fantasizing about it was brilliant! She stroked the base of his cock while she worked with her mouth, swirling her tongue around his tip and sucking him in deeply again and again. Her other hand disappeared into her knickers to briskly stroke herself.

Almost immediately Sherlock yelled. "Oh! Molly! Oh! Stop!"

He gently extracted himself and pulled her to her feet. He was trembling and panting and he spun them around and now it was Molly who was pressed roughly against the wall. More books fell around them.

His forehead was pressed to hers and they were both breathing hard. "I'm afraid I have to apologize in advance. But it has been year's worth of foreplay, I don't think this is going to last long."

"It's fine. God, it's more then fine! I want you right now!"

And with that he hiked her right thigh up over his hip. He hooked a finger and roughly pulled her knickers to one side. When he entered her, it wasn't slow, Molly was so wet and ready for him a slide in all the way.

Molly let out a strangled cry and Sherlock paused only a second before he started to move. Quickly. He set a rapid pace as he pumped into her furiously, the sound of flesh meeting flesh was positively wicked. Sherlock could feel Molly tighten around him almost immediately as she came fast and hard crying out his name. He managed to thrust into her a few more times before he shouted something unintelligible and filled her with his hot semen.

They slowly slide to the floor gasping for breath, trying to orient themselves after such an explosive coupling. After a moment Sherlock fumbled for his jacket to pull out his mobile. Molly looked at him questioningly.

"Four minutes and forty seven seconds."

"What?"

"The amount of time that passed between you opening the door to the conclusion of this particular sexual union."

Molly laughed and wrapped her arms around him. "Is that a record you wish to beat?"

"No, no. The objective would be to strive for longer next time," He pulled her in for a deep kiss.

Molly looked up at her tree. "Well look at this." She turned back to look at Sherlock. "Fancy meeting you here again."

"Yes, we seem to be making a habit of it." Sherlock extracted himself from his remaining clothing and Molly pulled his glorious unclothed body close to her once again.

"You mean a tradition."

"Ah yes, tradition." Sherlock removed Molly's bra and lazily kissed his way around her breasts as she sighed softly in response.

"It's been quite the year, this game of ours."

"Yes. A whole year of being driven to distraction by those cumbersome jumpers. Molly, you were so cruel! I just wanted an occasional glimpse of these."He caressed her breasts as Molly smiled and sighed. "Only to be blocked by wooly patterns of fruit. Immensely frustrating!"

"Sorry, I have no sympathy for you! How can I, when you took every opportunity to strip off your coat and jacket only to parade around the lab in those tight trousers hugging every contour of your bottom." She reached around and swatted his back side hard enough to produce a slapping sound that made Sherlock grin at her boldness.

"And this." Molly continued as she gentle clasped his cock which incredibly twitched and began to harden again. "And all of the times I had to leave without touching you. My only comfort coming from my own hands in my bed at night. That was cruel!"

The idea of Molly touching herself while thinking of him sent renewed sensations straight to his groin. Sherlock quirked a smile in response. "I must admit, I haven't indulged in such frequent masturbation since I was an adolescent. Undignified! I blame you entirely! Walking around all doe eyed and innocent. When we are both aware of what a naughty little thing you really are! Even today in the lab when you gave me that scandalous look. It took all of my will power stop myself from tossing off in the nearest available toilet. That is what you have reduced me to, Molly. Sherlock Holmes tossing off in a public toilet. Are you proud of yourself?"

Judging by her response, she was. She buried her hands in his hair and pulled him into a long wet kiss. Sherlock rolled himself on top of her and let his finger slip inside her knickers, dipping into her cunt until she was gasping.

"This really is a lovely tradition." Molly moaned. "Will we be able to keep it up?"

Sherlock paused in his ministrations and became serious. "I don't know, Molly."

"Oh." She said, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice. "Well, that's fine. It's nice just now, of course. She bit her lip and turned her face away.

"Molly." Sherlock said in such a gentle voice. "I mean I don't know if I want to torture myself another year. A year of not being able to kiss you when I feel inclined." He put a hand to her cheek and turned her face back to his and kissed her briefly. "Or touch you when your proximity demands I do so." He stroked her cheek with the hand that lingered there and stroked her clit for a second with the other, while Molly trembled at his touch.

"I don't want to walk away from your flat tomorrow knowing I have to wait another year for this."

"Are you saying . . . You want this to be . . ."

"What I'm saying is that I wish every day to be like Christmas." Their lips met again and it was a very long while before they parted again.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."

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><p><em><strong>So, I picked The Pupini Sisters version of Last Christmas because it's a bit more playful than other versions. And because no one in this story really betrayed any one. At the same time, it is new. The are together and it is different now. Sherlock has definitely changed his view on relationships. They're acknowledging that it isn't just a silly fling. There just might be more . . .<strong>_


	9. Chapter 9

**_Whew, long chapter! Tell me this isn't too sappy? I'm a little scared again. But you have all been so lovely and sweet, I decided to just go for it. Thank you so so so so so much for reading! Disclaimer - I don't own._**

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><p>Off with my overcoat<p>

Off with my gloves

Who needs an overcoat

I'm burning with love.

My heart's on fire

And the flames grow higher

So I will weather the storm.

What do I care how much it may storm

I've got my love to keep me warm

(I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm – Frank Sinatra)

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><p>One year later . . .<p>

The cab had come to a dead stop, after crawling through the London traffic at a snail's pace for what seemed like an eternity. It was by no fault of the driver's route. He knew the streets of London well and prided himself in his honesty and efficiency in getting his passengers to their destination in a timely fashion. But all progress had ceased. They should have expected it. It was Christmas Eve after all and half of London was either trying desperately to pick up last minute items at the shops, or making their respective ways to Christmas eve celebrations. One thing was clear, the city streets and sidewalks were in utter chaos!

Sherlock and Molly might have avoided this little situation had they a modicum of patience. Instead they were entirely focused on getting back to Baker street, getting out of their clothes and getting busy. By all rights, they should still be enjoying the dancing that was currently carrying on without them. Especially considering that the guests were gathered there to witness the joyful union of the pair.

They hadn't originally planned on sneaking away from their own wedding. Even if Sherlock didn't get it, Molly had understood that a midweek, Christmas Eve wedding was not the most convenient timing for their guests, but when it came to choosing a date Sherlock and Molly were of one mind - it had to be Christmas Eve. No other date would they consider.

And the whole thing had felt magical, in Molly's opinion. The guest list was small, but the location was perfectly elegant. On her insistence, the decorations were holiday themed, so the room was decked out in Christmas finery with fairy lights, and garlands, tinsel and ornaments. Sherlock, to Molly's astonishment, had no objection to the rather garish display. Beyond the decorations Molly had let their mothers work out the many details. And thinking of them, she felt just a tiny bit guilty disappearing like that.

At least the Watson's wouldn't be too terribly upset. They were practically the entire wedding party being Best Man, Maid of Honour, and Lucy had made the most adorable flower girl possible. During the wedding vows she had decided to lie on the floor and attempted to use Molly's skirt as a hideout, which had everyone laughing. But by the time they had set their minds to making a quick getaway, Lucy was falling asleep in her father's arms as he danced her around the floor and Mary looked exhausted. She was three months pregnant and feeling a bit queasy. Molly thought they might appreciate the excuse to leave early.

It was Sherlock's fault really. It was he, who had taken every opportunity to catch her, pulling her into the coat room or an alcove by the toilets to steal kisses and the occasional grope, getting them both entirely worked up. Molly realized with a sense of irony, that she had created a monster. An incredibly sexy, lustful monster. And after a year of fully indulging in each other, you would think they might have established some self control, but that didn't seem to be the case tonight. The fact that it was Christmas Eve and therefore positively full of those memories of recent and more private celebrations spent between the two, well that might explain the hurry to get back to Baker street for the real festivities of the night.

Their first dance as a married couple was something Molly would never forget. Sherlock had taken it upon himself to see to her lessons and had declared her skills adequate which John assured her, was high praise indeed. Second to that, the dance she was most fond of was the father-daughter dance in which Sherlock's own father stood in place of her Dad. Molly could not stop the tears from falling. As a matter of fact, neither could Mr. Holmes. Mrs Holmes and her son had stood dried eyed, feigning a lack of understanding at their sentimentality, but secretly adoring their respective spouses.

With the first dances finished and the party falling into a more free form style, Sherlock had caught Molly on her way out from fixing her makeup, pulling her into that dark alcove where he promptly engaged her in a rather frenzied session of tongue wrestling. At one point he had attempted to get under her skirt but that proved to be a difficult feat, even for the world's only consulting detective.

So they had giggled like a couple of naughty children playing truant as they had donned their coats, ditched the limo and hailed a cab instead. It would take a bit longer for anyone to notice their absence with the limo still parked outside. They jumped into the taxi just as the clouds broke open and rain began pouring down in a torrent.

They had snogged in the back seat like a couple of teenagers, as the cabbie did his best to remain unobtrusive. But when they had come to a dead stop he cleared his throat and the couple broke apart long enough to note their location.

"Sorry about that." The cabbie apologized. "Christmas Eve traffic is always a bit of hell."

Sherlock looked out the windows before turning to Molly. "We could get out here?"

"Oh, but it must be at least a twenty minute walk!"

"I know a way that will get us home in five."

"It's raining pretty hard, mate." The cabbie warned. "The traffic'll move eventually. I just don't want to see the lady getting wet."

"Well, I have a different opinion on that subject." Sherlock turned a smouldering look on his bride. "Molly?"

She bit her lip and gave him that coy look she was becoming entirely too skilled at. "Let's go."

Sherlock threw some cash at the cabbie and they ran out into the rain.

"This way, Molly." Sherlock had to raise his voice to be heard through the down pour as he took Molly's hand and lead her through an alley.

He pulled her along on a maze of narrow alleys and side streets that she had no idea even existed despite living in the area for the past six months. She did her best to keep up with Sherlock's long strides, but her cumbersome skirts and full dress length coat, now sodden with rain made movement difficult.

"Sherlock! Slow down, I can't keep up, with all of this." She gestured at her soaked wedding dress."

Sherlock stopped and looked at Molly, considering her problem carefully. "I could carry you?" Sherlock offered.

Molly envisioned Sherlock valiantly scooping her up, bridal style and whisking her home to have his way with her under the Christmas tree and nodded her agreement with a giggle.

The way it played out differed slightly from her vision. Sherlock did indeed scoop her up, only to toss her over his shoulder in a fireman rescue hold. Molly shrieked and laughed, kicking her feet as Sherlock set a brisk pace.

"Sorry Molly, but this really is a more efficient hold. And safer too as it works more naturally with my centre of gravity." He picked up speed, practically running. "And it affords a better opportunity for this." He reached up and pinched her bottom and she shrieked and laughed some more.

"Oh you, bastard!" She giggled. "Don't think I won't get you for this. That arse of yours is mine!"

"Clearly it is, Molly. We _are _married, after all. My arse _is_ yours. But -." He chuckled evilly. "That means your arse is mine!" And he reached up to pinch her again eliciting another shriek and a curse.

In a moment they were outside the black door with the gold numbers 221 affixed to it.

Sherlock lowered Molly to the ground and they stood there in the pouring ran facing one another, grinning like fools.

Their clothes were utterly soaked. Molly had found the perfect coat for a winter wedding. It was white and flowy and long. It had a huge hood and belled sleeves that were trimmed in, fittingly enough, marabou. Now it looked like she was wearing a drowned arctic animal of some sort. Sherlock fared only slightly better with his tux and woolen coat giving him the appearance of remaining dryng, while actually he was soaked to the skin.

It was cold, only slightly above freezing and their breath came out in clouds of steam, but before opening the door, the pair fell on each other, seeking lips, tongues entwined, Molly's leg curled around Sherlock's as they embraced on the doorstep. A few pedestrians walking the streets, umbrellas and shopping bags gripped firmly in hands, couldn't help but to smile at the pair dressed in water logged wedding clothes, snogging in the torrential rains that pelted down on Baker street.

Sherlock came back to awareness when he felt that Molly's shiver was not from arousal but from the chill. He unlocked the door and they slipped into the warmth of their home. Puddles formed where they stood and they dropped their coats to the floor at the bottom of the stairs.

Sherlock was of a mind that the sooner he saw Molly's naked form stretched beneath the Christmas tree that now occupied a space of honour in 221B, the better. To further his cause he turned to help Molly with her coat, which was still clinging to one bare arm and refusing to peel away without a concerted effort. That was when he noticed how inadequate the coat had been in providing any real warmth.

Molly had picked it because her wedding dress was a strapless gown with a corseted bodice and she wanted something that she could slip on for any necessary trips outdoors. It had not been chosen for any real warmth. She had said it made her feel like a fairy snow queen, which Sherlock thought was both ridiculous and adorably Molly-ish.

When Sherlock had made the decision to run home through the rain he had not taken into consideration the fact that his bride was essentially bare to the elements. Now he could hear her teeth chattering.

"For God's sake, Molly, why didn't you say you were cold? We should have stayed in the cab!" Sherlock wasn't annoyed with Molly though. He was angry at himself for missing this detail.

"It's alright." Molly said through the clacking of her teeth. "I didn't notice it. Much."

Sherlock looked at her and his expression softened with concern. "Well come on then. We have to get you warm." He took her hand and lead her up the stairs.

"First, we have to get you out of those clothes."

Molly snorted. "_That _is an absolute must!"

"Molly, I'm being serious. Hypothermia is nothing to laugh at!"

"I'm not hypothermic." Molly argued as her body was wracked by a series of shudders.

"You are seriously chilled and if we don't do something to get your core temperature elevated, this night could still end with you at A&E. Is that where you want to spend our wedding night?"

Molly shook her head as Sherlock stepped around her to unbutton her gown.

"My God, Molly." Sherlock exclaimed as his eyes traveled down the numerable buttons that fastened her dress. "Why would any dress require 84 buttons?"

Molly sighed testily. "It's not 84 buttons and you know it! There are only 34 of them, Sherlock."

"Only." Sherlock muttered as he began to work them open. "Why in the world are clothes that are destined by their very nature, to be removed at the culmination of the evening, constructed in such a manner as to be all but impossible to remove? Since it's an emergency, can't I just force it open? Some of these buttons seem fairly loose. They would pop off quite easily, with little effort."

"Oh no you don't!"

"You're sure about that?"

"Quite sure."

"Fine."

Sherlock tackled the buttons with renewed effort and had them dealt with in short order. The dress fell to the floor with a wet slap and Molly stepped out of the pooled fabric around her feet.

"I should really go hang this in the bath tub. It's going to be ruined if I -" Molly turned to see that Sherlock was gaping at her.

Beneath her gown, Molly had chosen some wedding appropriate undergarments. They included white, lace-topped stay up stockings, sheer white lace knickers and a matching sheer white lace bustier.

"I . . That is to say . . .you . . ." Sherlock gulped audibly. "Should you take those off?"

"Not if you don't want me to, there really isn't much fabric to them, so they're barely damp." She bit her lip and smiled at him. Even after a year it was still amusing to see him react that way.

Unfortunately she was struck by another bout of shivers and Sherlock snapped out of his lustful stupor and went back into action mode.

He retrieved the blanket from the sofa and set Molly in his chair, wrapping the cover around her snugly. Next he built a fire and once it was stoked he turned back to Molly to have a closer look. He squinted at her.

"Did you know that you're lips are purple? Cynosis - we need to get you warm quickly! Would you like some tea, Molly? Consuming a warm beverage is one of the best home remedies when it comes to hypothermia."

"Could I have hot chocolate, instead?" Molly pleaded. Sherlock didn't frequently offer to fetch her treats from the kitchen and she was going to take full advantage of this situation. Besides, she really was freezing. She could barely contain the violent shudders that wanted to overtake her. She pulled the blanket tight and leaned closer to the fire grate.

In short order, he carried a steaming mug of hot chocolate to his new bride.

"But there's no whipped cream. How can I drink hot chocolate with no whipped cream?" Molly complained.

So Sherlock went back to the kitchen found the whip cream and added it to the top, pulling a face at the sticky sweetness. With the drink properly topped he brought it back to the sitting room to present it proudly to Molly so she could admire how clever he had been.

"You forgot the chocolate sprinkles." She pointed out.

"Chocolate sprinkles? We have chocolate sprinkles?"

"Cupboard above the sink, Sherlock. Pretty please?" She batted her eyelashes and pouted.

He smiled having caught on to her game but fetched the sprinkles willingly enough. His bride could be such a brat. But he loved it!

He set her drink on the little table beside the chair.

"The next step in treating hypothermia is skin to skin contact."

"I can see where this is heading." Molly laughed.

"Do you now, Molly? This is quite serious. I am only concerned for your health and well-being of course." Sherlock began removing his own wet clothing at last. "Any subsequent enjoyment that either of us obtain from the experience is merely a side effect of the intended purpose." Sherlock was smirking a bit now as he made quick work of stripping off all of his clothing down to his pants. He decided to leave them on, both as a statement as to how serious he was taking this situation and perhaps to torment Molly a bit. She could get down right impatient when it came time to divest Sherlock of his clothing.

"You're no fun." She complained.

Next he knelt in front of the chair and pulled away the blanket enough to wrap it around the both of them. He leaned forward and took Molly into an embrace, bringing her in close as he knelt between the v of her legs. She laced her arms under his, to wrap around his torso.

"Agh! Molly! Your hands are like ice!" He pulled back enough to take her hands between his and chaffed them, trying to warm them with friction.

"Hmph! Sort of reminds me of our first Christmas Eve."

"Ah, No. That time your hands were slightly chilly from holding your drink in that death grip. This is a bit more serious. I'm rather concerned about frost bite. Do you have any sensation in your fingers?"

"They're a bit numb."

Sherlock sighed with worry. "Put your hands on my body again, Molly." He lifted his arms in offering to Molly and she laughed and stuck her hands in his arm pits. He hissed at the icy touch but lowered his arms over her hands gamely.

"Well, that's not bad. Where did you learn that?"

"In my line of work, Molly, one must be aware of many survival techniques no matter how unlikely they seem. Sharing body heat is a most effective treatment for hypothermia when medical help is unavailable."

They stayed that way quietly for a moment. Then Molly spoke.

"I thought of a way to warm my feet."

"Did you now?"

Molly brought her feet up and placed them on the backs of Sherlock's thighs.

"Ahh, Fu – Molly!" Molly laughed having almost driven the consulting detective to curse. "That was positively evil! I have experiences pain and torture in my time but that was ruthless!"

But Sherlock let her feet remain where she had put them. In fact after a while he took a turn rubbing them between his hands while Molly wrapped her fingers around her mug.

"I think I'm finally starting to thaw."

"Good, good." Sherlock nodded. "The literature on hypothermia state that the most vulnerable areas are the hand and feet. The only parts that are of greater risk is the head and groin."

"Some how, I think those areas will receive plenty of warming tonight."

They embraced quietly with the fire place and the Christmas tree shedding the only light in the quiet flat.

"Molly, I really am sorry about tonight. I should have realized you were not properly dressed for a run in the rain. It seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time. I wish I was more observant in regards to the comfort and feelings of others, but in those areas I always seem to fail. I sometimes wonder how I can be a good husband when I am such a selfish arse."

"You're joking, right? I wanted to run home as badly as you did! I'm not a child. Caring for me doesn't mean you have to make decisions for me. I am an adult perfectly capable of taking responsibility for myself. But just look at the way you've taken care of me just now! That's what counts. I couldn't ask for a more caring husband."

Molly tightened her embrace and kissed Sherlock thoroughly to emphasis her point.

After another prolonged bit of snogging Sherlock spoke. "Is there anything else you would wish for on our wedding day, Molly?"

"Hmm," She considered this for a moment before answering. "I loved dancing with you tonight. I was wondering if we should have stayed long enough for one more? Who knows when it will ever happen again?"

"It's bound to happen again, Molly. I'm sure Lucy will one day marry and she might wish to invite some old friends of the family."

"So I have to wait thirty years before I can dance with you again?"

"Maybe she'll marry young."

"Or not at all."

"We could dance now?"

"Here?"

"Yes. Why not?" Sherlock stood up. "What do you think Molly. Will you dance with me?" He stood there in nothing but his pants holding out a hand for Molly to take.

"Yes. Of course I will."

She stood and Sherlock pulled her into his arms. He took one of her hands in his and brought it up between them where he could kiss her knuckles. The other hand he placed on her lower back, pulling her in close. Molly put her free arm around her husband and leaned her head onto his shoulder and gazed at him.

They rocked slowly as Sherlock hummed a tune in Molly's ear. It was rare thing for him to do, but she loved it when it happened. His voice was deep and unpracticed, not much louder than a whisper really. But he could carry a tune wonderfully and Molly thought he sounded lovely. Now he was surrounding her with his warmth, humming that little tune to accompany their own private wedding night dance. When he actually sang a couple of phrases in hushed tones for her ears only, Molly's heart never felt as full of love as at that moment.

"My heart's on fire and the flame grows higher. So I will weather the storm. What do I care how much it may storm. I've got my love to keep me warm."

Molly smiled into his shoulder as the dance slowly evolved into an embrace, the embrace into caresses, which soon led to those sweet kisses only Sherlock Holmes was capable of, as far as Molly was concerned. And the whispered confessions of love were uttered as the couple lay entwined once more under the light of the Christmas tree where they would always meet forever and ever, from this day forward as long as they both should live.

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><p>By the time Mrs Hudson arrived home to find huge puddles of water where Sherlock and Molly's coats lay in a heap on her nice clean floor, she almost had a mind to go and scold the two, reminding them that they were not children and therefore perfectly capable of cleaning up after themselves.<p>

She only made it halfway up the stairs before she heard the sounds that made it pretty plain that the couple was at the moment too busily engaged with one another to pay any attention to her scoldings. She smiled to herself as she made her way back down the stairs clutching the hip that pained her. They would get an earful at dinner tomorrow when the mothers arrived regarding their perceived abandonment. Maybe she would just forget about her own admonishments this time, bless them.

Instead, she decided to clean up the mess herself then go have one of her herbal soothers. Otherwise she might find it hard to sleep, what with the way those two were carrying on.


	10. Chapter 10

**_Oh my Gosh, Here's another one and I'm worried again because things are a little tough this time around. After a few such lovely years, it's hard to see Sherlock and Molly suffer. Poor babies! Disclaimer . . . .not mine!_**

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><p><em>He tried hard to help<em>

_You know, he put me at ease_

_And he loved me so naughty_

_Made me weak in my knees_

_Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on_

_(River – Joni Mitchell)_

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><p>One Year Later . . .<p>

As Molly left Bart's at the end of her shift, late in the afternoon that Christmas Eve, she noted the black cars that tracked her movement and decided to take the Underground just to spite them. The wind was freezing and the sky had remained a solid steel gray all day. Now in the failing light of the late afternoon it would soon be black as pitch.

There was no rain or snow, though it felt cold enough for the latter. There were however occasional hard bits ice caught by the wind that stung Molly's cheeks as she pulled her scarf up more snugly to ward off the worst of it.

She knew she should take a cab and she was sure she would be on the receiving end of another lecture on her safety if she didn't abide by the rules that she was instructed to follow. And if she was extra lucky it might escalate to the point where she would be accused of risking national security, which was ridiculous because it was glaringly obvious, at least to Molly that she was not being targeted, nor had she ever been. The whole thing had nothing to do with her and therefore these measures being taken were ridiculous.

She descended the stairs to the Tube station with a resentful satisfaction for having given her minders the slip. Soon she was seated on a train heading home to Baker street.

Of course it wasn't the same there now.

Sherlock and Molly had enjoyed six beautiful months of marriage before the worst had happened. It's not like she expected their lives to be free of strife. Sometimes the cases Sherlock took, had a way of interrupting the peace at 221B. He often dealt with unsavoury people and sometimes trouble came looking for him, like that time Molly came home to see the flat torn apart and Sherlock sporting a cut to his lip and a black eye.

She knew that life with Sherlock wouldn't always be easy. She knew who he was and what he did and had never asked for, or expected that to change just because he was a married man. Any way, incidents like that were relatively rare and she couldn't help but notice the affect they had on her lover when he came to her at night fresh from the fight and impossibly aroused. It seemed even more so when it threatened his territory.

It was kind of funny, Molly thought, that such a controlled man, when it came right down to it, was basically just like any animal protecting his home and his mate, marking his territory as he thrust into her, and marking her neck with his bites. It's not like Molly enjoyed danger. But she had to trust Sherlock to know his business and what he brought home to her was his sweet love. Maybe she was foolish for enjoying the outcome, but she never could be held accountable for her thoughts or actions when it came to Sherlock Holmes. He was her kryptonite.

Back at Baker street, two black cars awaited Molly's arrival and two men dressed in black suits approached as she neared the door.

"Dr. Hooper, I have been instructed to remind you that if you refuse to accept the transportation that has been arranged for you, that you should at least employ the service of a taxi-cab. Your security can not be guaranteed if you take the Underground."

"I know, I know. Look, how many times do I have to say this. No one is following me. No body cares. Please, why can't you just leave me alone!"

She pushed her way past the men and slammed the door in their faces. She stormed up the stairs, entering the flat and tossed her bag on the kitchen table.

The sitting room appeared as always, perhaps a little tidier, but not by much as Molly had little inclination to clean these days. She still brought a Christmas tree into 221B and had decorated it despite the grim circumstances. She wanted to have some hope, but looking at it now only made her feel terribly sad and frightened.

She stood by the window looking down at the black cars, while their occupants looked up at her and she felt a sudden need to take her anger out on someone so she pulled the window wide open and whistled loud enough to catch the attention of a half a dozen passersby on the sidewalk, as well as two men in black standing nearby the parked cars sipping coffee from steaming paper cups.

"Oi!" She yelled. "I have a message you can take to my idiot of a brother-in-law!" With that she hoisted both middle fingers out the window and shouted, "Tell him I said he can sod the fuck off!"

Molly turned back to the sitting room to find Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway, her usual hoo-hoo upon entry had gone unheard. She was standing with one hand to her mouth.

"Oh dear." she gasped. She strode over to the open window to see the black cars and she huffed."I know how you feel, dear. Their following my every step too, always getting underfoot. It's getting so it's hard to visit with Mrs Turner without raising questions." She tsked.

She leaned out the window and waggled her fingers in an innocent toodle-loo wave before turning her hand around and offering a gesture similar to Molly's. Then she smiled sweetly and closed both the window and the drapes.

Molly laughed and Mrs Hudson's titter joined in. She laughed and laughed until tears came to her eyes and then she cried until her tears were used up and Mrs Hudson sat on the sofa beside her clasping Molly's hand in hers and patting it every now and again.

"There, there dear, I know it's hard. But it will be alright, just wait and see. He'll be back. He came back last time, didn't he? Everything will be just fine."

Molly tried to let the words sooth her but there wasn't much comfort there. The last time Sherlock had disappeared, she had been amoungst the very few to know he was alive, but once he had left the country, she'd had no clue as to whether or not he lived, not until that evening he had appeared in the locker room at Bart's. She had felt heartbroken then, long before their lives had truly merged.

This was infinitely worse.

Sherlock had been gone for six long months. It had been six months since she had seen him or touched him or even heard a word regarding his welfare. She had tried to get Mycroft to tell her what was going on but he was always conveniently occupied with other matters it seemed. It was a case of obvious avoidance.

The night Sherlock left she should have been suspicious because of the desperation in the way he made love to her, showering her body with his kisses, as if he could never have his fill of her. Then he had told her he needed to leave, just for awhile, for a case, but that he would return as soon as he could. He gave no indication of just how long he intended to be away. Then he strode out the door as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

The day after he left, the black cars had begun to follow her. She knew Mycroft's handiwork when she saw it and she began to feel a sense of wrongness.

When she found out that not only had John Watson disappeared, but Mary, who was been practically ready to birth their baby, and Lucy, were gone as well, leaving no trace, she began to feel the first stirrings of fear.

And she was utterly alone and completely powerless.

Mrs Hudson had left Molly with a hot tea and some home baked biscuits, but she had little appetite. Molly's thoughts were a million miles away, her memories full of secret Santa gifts and massages, long drawn out games with lovely endings and fairy tale weddings. And she thought finally of running in the rain and swaying to the sound of Sherlock's voice singing softly in her ear as he held her tightly in his embrace.

And now the flat was so quiet and empty with out him.

It was Christmas eve and she wondered if Mary had a boy or a girl and if they were safe, maybe guarded by black cars and men in black suits like Molly was that night? She wondered if John was with Mary or if he too, was miserable with missing her and their children? But mostly she wondered about Sherlock. Did he miss her or was he able to shut away that part of himself in order to focus on his work. Was he even alive? The thought of life without him, hurt too much to consider. His absence was like a physical pain. She might as well be walking around with a big gaping hole in her chest. If the wound was visible like that at least she wouldn't have to explain herself.

And so she sat in the darkening room, having wrapped herself in Sherlock's pajamas and dressing gown just to surround herself with the his scent that remained in his clothing, staring at the glow of the tree as her tears fell.

* * *

><p>Sherlock felt fine. In fact he felt more than fine, he felt pretty bloody fantastic! And the closer his cab drew to Baker street the better he felt.<p>

It was done. John, Mary, Lucy and their new daughter Madeline would be safe now. Mary's past had come back to haunt the family, threatening to put an end to their happiness and it had taken some hard work, including the dismantling of two major crime syndicates as well as the imprisonment of three prominent Eastern European government men - Sherlock had to reluctantly admit Mycroft's international pull had been helpful in those situations - but it was done. There was no one else to dredge up Mary Watson's past life and they could finally resume a peaceful family life.

But the whole experience had been tougher than Sherlock had expected.

Of course in many ways, the case itself was much easier than the years he had spent dismantling Moriarty's criminal network. Primarily, this was due to John's constant companionship this time around, which was a greater comfort to Sherlock than he cared to admit. He knew recent years had softened him, making him crave simple human contact, a friendly familiar face, the simple comfort afforded by just the mere presence of trusted friend. It was fortifying to have John's steady presence to depend on in these times of trouble.

But the thing he could not have predicted and filled the days with unanticipated hardship, was how very much he missed Molly. It was like a physical ache that he had to constantly make an effort to push away. He tried shutting those feelings in a room in his mind palace so he could put all of his attention on his work. And when he thought about it logically, this was the proper thing to do, for it would bring him that much sooner back to London. And Molly. But putting Molly out of mind was much easier said than done.

But now that was all in the past. The case was closed and he was almost home.

The timing couldn't have been better. It was Christmas Eve, their first wedding anniversary. His usually busy brain had settled on one single solitary focus; Molly. He couldn't wait to walk through that door and wrap her in his embrace. He could almost see it now, imagining just how happy she would be to see him.

Oh, she would probably cry, but he was becoming accustomed to her emotional reactions. He almost looked forward to soothing her just to see her smile once the tears were done.

The cab pulled up to the kerb and Sherlock paid the driver, barely looking at how much he had handed over. Soon he was through the door and climbing the stairs two at a time, calling out Molly's name as he finally stepped into the sitting room for the first time in six long months.

But the second he entered the room, he had to side step a flying tea cup that almost caught him in the head. The cup smashed against the door frame and amber drops of tea splashed everywhere.

"Molly?"

It was wrong. She stood in the shadows of the room, her face pale, dark circles under her eyes, which were red and bloodshot. She wore his clothing, pajama pants, under shirt and his blue dressing gown. She had to turn up the legs several times to keep from tripping on them.

She said not a word, she only stood there looking at him, her chest heaving with her quickened breath.

Sherlock was confused. He knew that expression on her face, for he had seen it there once before, on that day she had slapped him so long ago. Why was she looking at him like that now? She should be ecstatic to have him home.

"I'm back." He said lamely. Oh God, now he was stating the obvious. Stupid!

For some reason, he felt a sinking feeling of dread in his chest. "Molly?" He asked again, looking around the room. No sign of a break in, no sign of intruders of any kind. He would have known the second he set foot in the place. Then why did Molly look at him like that?

"Six months." She whispered.

"Yes. That's how long the job took. All done now though, so - ." He shrugged and offered a hesitant smile.

"Six months." Molly repeated which made Sherlock worry that she might have suffered a head injury of some sort while he was away. "Six months with no word, no message, no anything! I didn't even know if you were ALIVE!" She groped around on the desk beside her until her hand closed on an object. She picked up a hard covered book about venomous snakes, reptiles and amphibians - and she threw it at him.

Once more he easily side stepped the projectile and it bounced off the wall to Sherlock's left, pages fluttering open as it landed page side down on the floor.

"Molly why - ?"

"Don't! Just don't!" She jabbed a finger in his direction. "Don't tell me that you don't understand! How can you NOT? I thought you might be DEAD! You couldn't let me know that you were alright? You couldn't, I don't know, maybe stop and think – hey maybe I should let my wife know that I'm ALIVE."

"Hoo-hoo." Came Mrs Hudsons soft call from the stair landing. "Sherlock dear, you're back! Is everything alright up there?"

"Actually, Mrs Hudson, I believe we're having a domestic. At least I think we are." He turned back to Molly. "Are we?" He asked, truly confused.

"Actually, Mrs Hudson." Molly called. "I was just telling my husband about all of the interesting new technologies available that permit communication. Such as the telephone! Or mobile phone or email, social media. Even letters or bloody FUCKING SMOKE SIGNALS!" Molly stomped her feet as she shouted and for some inexplicable reason, Sherlock noted that she was braless judging by the enticing jiggle this resulted in. Then he thought he really must be losing his mind and focused once more on Molly's speech which was building into a tirade.

"What is the USE of living in a world of instant communication when a woman can't even be informed if she is a WIDOW before she has even made it to her first bloody wedding ANNIVERSARY!" She reached around and grabbed a wooden box of note cards and hurled it at her husband and the lid popped off sending a shower of paper everywhere.

"Oh dear, Sherlock, I'm afraid she has a point. I'll just be in mine if you need anything." And with that they heard her make as hasty a retreat as her hip would permit, down the stairs, followed by the click of her door.

"Molly, I said communication would be difficult. I thought you understood-"

"I thought you meant for a week or two! A month at the most! You could have at least sent a message through Mycroft, Sherlock. Instead I had to deal with his squad of neanderthals each day and not a bloody WORD from that brother of yours. And with your parents abroad I couldn't even go to them for help. And I was just left . . .just . . . . just FORGOTTEN!" She grabbed the framed wedding picture from the desk and threw it. Sherlock ducked and the glass smashed to pieces against the wall.

Sherlock knelt on the floor to gently remove the photo from the broken glass. The picture showed a happier Molly and Sherlock smiling away, blissfully unaware of this troubled time in their not-to-distant future. Molly walked over to were he knelt and she looked down at him, nostrils flared in her rage. He held out the picture and she took it from him, looking at their happy faces, before letting the photo flutter to the floor.

"I thought you might be lying somewhere six feet under or maybe just left some were to be discovered by some backpacker, years from now, nothing more than a pile of bones." Her voice was still full of rage, but Sherlock could see the sparkle of unshed tears standing in her eyes making them sparkle in the multi-coloured light of the Christmas tree.

And he really couldn't think of what to say. He wished he was better at dealing with emotions. Because then he could think of some magical words that would make everything better, make Molly smile like she was supposed to when he came home. Nothing was going as he had expected. The unsettled feeling in his chest grew.

Instead of speaking, he shuffled over to her on his knees, as if he could somehow make himself smaller so she might take pity on him and put a stop to this unexpected rage. He placed his hands on her hips and rested his forehead on her belly. He could feel her body stiffen.

"You can't just touch me and make this go away Sherlock. You disappeared for six months!" She started to pull away but Sherlock tightened his hold, not wanting to look up and met her angry gaze.

He could feel the energy rushing through her. Her body trembled with tension. But he felt one of her hands hesitate before it sank into his hair. Maybe, Sherlock thought, just maybe she was softening, but when she spoke again the rage was still there. "I was so scared. Did you even think of that?"

Her other hand found its way into his hair and they clung there almost painfully tight. Something was happening and Sherlock wasn't sure what. The messages her body was sending was utterly confusing. He could practically the feel waves of arousal coming off of her. He was like a satellite dish picking up her strong signals, her breath was quick, they way her hands caressed and pulled his hair indicated her want. Christ, he could actually smell her scent!

He removed one hand from her hip and tentatively slide it up the inside of her thigh until it met her sex. He slowly and deliberately dragged his thumb over her slit. She gasped and he could feel her wetness seep through the fabric. He continued to work his fingers on her cunt through the pajama bottoms and her hips moved against them as her breath came in sharp gasps.

He took his hand away so he could hook his fingers into the pajamas and pull them down to her feet and she lifted each one in turn so he could fling away the clothing. He looked up at her hoping now to see her face filled relief at his return and love, but was surprised to see the anger still there. She let the dressing gown slip to the floor and she pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it on the ground. He was right about the lack of bra, of course.

He dragged his eyes away from her furious glare and looked at her wet curls. He had to sit back on his heels to get a proper angle, but he pushed her thighs apart and moved his hands to clasp her arse to lend support. He licked his lips and inhaled her smell before his tongue darted into her slit. His only thought was to change her expression and bring happiness. She gasped at the touch and pulled his hair painfully but the sensation shot a bolt of lust straight to his groin.

His cock was painfully hard and his thoughts were so utterly confused as he sucked and licked Molly's cunt and she moaned and grunted her pleasure. But it was the way her hands were still fisted painfully in his hair. Her anger was still there. Was he wrong to try and bring her pleasure now or should he have searched for some other means to work through her feelings first? He missed her taste so much! And while he greedily devoured her, he could almost imagine that everything was just as it should be.

Why did emotional matters have to be so complex?

"Ah, fuck! Sherlock! Why? Ah God please! Why?" She cried as she pulled his hair and moved against his mouth. He lifted her right leg over his shoulder and renewed his efforts, pushing two fingers into her and thrusting them as he lapped her clit in long wet swipes. Her body pulsed and tightened around his fingers and she shrieked loudly with her climax.

Sherlock looked up to watch her in her throes. As she slowly opened her eyes he felt a real dash of fear when Molly looked down at him and the fury was _still_ there in her eyes.

The next thing he knew Molly had shoved him to the floor where he lay on his back. She crashed to the floor on her elbow and knees so hard, the dishes in the kitchen sink rattled and clinked together. She straddled his body, grinding herself against the bulge in his trousers, slicking his clothing with her fluids.

He almost came from that friction alone, only Molly sensed his closeness by the desperate moans he was making and she pulled her body away.

"No!" She ordered.

She sat back, leaving him cold and wanting as she proceeded to rip open his shirt. The buttons popped off in every direction, clattering and rolling across the worn carpet onto the wooden floor. And she had his trousers open with speedy efficiency. He lifted his arse so she could draw his clothing down just enough to access his cock.

Hovering over him she impaled herself on his erection and began to writhe, moving quickly. He tried to lift his head and catch her lips in a kiss but she grabbed his hair again and dragged his head back. Once again he was on the edge of orgasm when she pulled off of him. Ignoring his urgent cry of protest as she let him wait until she was ready to proceed once more.

She repeated this pattern several times, stopping when he appeared to be approaching orgasm. She would let him slip out of her body, sometimes telling him "No." Leaving him wanting so badly, not just the culmination of the act, but the end of the wrath that inspired it, because there was a fear growing in him as Molly fucked and tormented him. And he became aware of words spilling from his own mouth.

"Please Molly! Please, I'm sorry! Oh God! Oh please! Molly, please!"

Sherlock realized he was begging, something he had never done before in his lifetime. Soon Molly was so overtaken by her own need, she no longer pulled away but fucked him hard until he felt her begin to tighten again and he finally came with a shout, releasing himself inside his wife.

She collapsed on him panting and gasping, her body slick with sweat and trembling from the intensity of her exertions. After some time had passed she lifted her head slowly to look at Sherlock and she blinked in shock at the expression on his face.

Molly could not have explained her reaction when she saw Sherlock saunter in after his six month absence, as if nothing at all in the world was wrong. She could not have predicted the anger she felt, and she would have sworn that she would only feel relief to see Sherlock alive once more, but instead she felt enraged.

And when Sherlock had tried to embrace her she felt no less angry, but she was also overcome by his proximity and her desire for him overtook her. Before she could understand what was going on, Sherlock was devouring her and her feelings battled within her. She didn't want to let go of the anger, not after all those months, but oh how she had missed his clever mouth on her.

And then she was fucking him and torturing him and she never would have thought herself capable of such cruelty. But then as she lay there in the aftermath of her crime she just wanted to be done with the anger. And when she had pulled back to look at her husband she was shocked by the expression she found there.

Because there was a struggle going on there that she had never seen before in that beautiful face. He was trying unsuccessfully to blink back tears. His expression was so raw, so open, so bare. She never in her life seen him like this.

"Please don't hate me, Molly" He whispered.

"What?" She asked not believing her ears.

"I'm sorry, Molly. Don't hate me."

Her own eyes filled with tears too and her lips quivered. She tried to speak but at first nothing came out. She tried again, her voice was choked with her tears. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his neck.

"I don't hate you, Sherlock." Her voice was muffled in his skin and she was soaking the crook of his neck with tears. "I could never hate you. I'm scared! So bloody terrified. I don't think I could bare it if anything happened to you. I love you."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and melted at her softening against him.

"I love you, too, Molly." He whispered and then she was sobbing and they were embracing and finally, finally Molly's lips met Sherlock's for the first time in six months. And for the first time in all those long dreary months, they felt they were finally home.

Later, they found that Molly had carpet burn on her elbows and knees from the impact when she had thrown herself to the floor and the subsequent friction. Sherlock pulled on a dressing gown and went to Mrs Hudson to see if she had some bandages.

He found Mrs Hudson seated at her kitchen table, her eyes a bit glassy, it seemed she might have indulged a bit early in her soothers. She brought out her first aid kit and rummaged around.

"You know, Sherlock." she said. "In some ways, this makes me think of Frank. We would have such rows! Oh, we could wake the neighbors, it was that bad. But after . . .well, it always was very physical with us."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying something rude. He really was learning to navigate these treacherous, social seas, no one could deny that!

"But you know, dear, you're nothing like Frank. He didn't ever really care about me. Not enough to keep that eye of his from wandering."

"I would get so mad at him. Sort of like how Molly was mad at you, dear. But, you know it all comes from fear. I was afraid of losing Frank. Molly is afraid of losing you."

"The difference is that I don't think you would ever intentionally hurt Molly, would you? Seems plain to me. But, Sherlock, you have to talk to her. You can't assume she'll just know these things if you don't tell her. Maybe she just doesn't know the truth; that you'll always come back to her, isn't that right?"

Mrs Hudson handed him the bandages and patted him on the cheek and Sherlock smiled and gave her a quick one arm hug and a kiss to the top of her head.

"I'm glad you're back, Sherlock."

"And I'm glad to be back, Mrs Hudson,"

Sherlock cleaned and bandaged Molly's wounds while he told her all about his time away, telling her about Mary's new baby and how she was looking forward to introducing Molly to Madeline.

After Sherlock had finished tending to Molly they embraced under the tree. Sherlock held her close, touching her frequently and kissing her whenever the inclination struck, which was often.

Tomorrow would be a fine day for friends and family to gather, though it might take a little time to smooth things between Molly and Mycroft. Oh well, that could wait until the new year.

* * *

><p><em><strong>So there it is! Hope you like it and aren't upset that Molly was so angry or that Sherlock was so silly as to think he could disappear for six months and think Molly would be unaffected by that. Yay for Mrs Hudson!<strong>_


	11. Chapter 11

**_Here's another one. I'm excited about it because it was originally a direction I wasn't going to go, but I'm so happy that it did! Any way, I got to spend some time snuggled under my Christmas tree, reading about autopsies, especially in regards to smells, interesting stuff! I owe a bunch of replies. Everyone has been so lovely and encouraging. Thank you so much! And I still don't own it! Rats!_**

* * *

><p><em>So if you're worried and you can't sleep<em>

_Just count your blessings instead of sheep_

_And you'll go to sleep_

_Counting your blessings_

_(Count Your Blessings – Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney)_

* * *

><p>One Year Later . . .<p>

It was the smell.

As one might imagine, the odours present throughout the course of a typical autopsy are powerful and varied. One of the best things about becoming a primary attending pathologist Molly had found, was getting to delegate some of the less pleasant jobs to an assistant, usually some poor green around the gills medical student pulling an unfortunate round in the morgue.

These days she had some one else at the sinks working with lengths of intestine, directing water through them to rinse out the unpleasant mess contained within. That alone filled the room with a stench a feces and vomitus that overpowered the strong chemical smells of disinfectant. It's not like Molly hadn't paid her dues as a student and assistant pathologist over the years. She had rinsed many miles of intestines in her days at Barts.

Opening the stomach of a cadaver had its own unique scent and it wasn't a job she could hand over to a less experienced person. Observing and identifying stomach contents occasionally led to discovering the cause of death. As the primary attending pathologist it was her job to note anything of significance that might yield some answers.

Sometimes, the job was simple and there was very little in the stomach, though there was always the unpleasant smell of gastric acid. But other times, when she opened that organ, it was to find the contents abundant and in many stages of digestion.

The body she had open before her today was one of the latter types. The smell of bile and gastric acid filled her senses as she cut into the stomach, employing the use of pick-ups, to pull open the incision to offer a better visual.

She noticed a sheen of sweat break out on her forehead. That was a bit odd. She would remember to ask if some one had tampered with the thermostat, once she was finished. It was extremely important to keep it cool in the morgue and it would be bad if someone had decided they were feeling a bit chilly and adjusted the setting for mere reasons of comfort.

Looking at the stomachs contents she noted fibrous strands of beef and what looked like peas. Beyond that the contents degraded into substance too far gone by the process of digestion to identify by the senses. She took samples and placed them in labeled bottles for further testing.

A wave of dizzyness hit her and she shut her eyes for a minute to try to stop the sensation of vertigo. A few deep breathes was the method recommended to those new to attending autopsies, but it had been years since Molly had to resort to this coping mechanism.

Of course the deep breaths only brought the smells into sharper focus. It was weird. She had never had an issue with this malodorous task in the past. Even as a student she had become known for her stomach of steel. But now . . ._oh god . . ._

"Dr. Hooper, are you alright?" Came the concerned voice of the student working at the sink.

She was silent for a moment, as she pressed her lips together, trying to master the feeling of queasiness that was becoming rather hard to ignore.

It was clear that she was failing at this attempt.

"Excuse me for a moment." She was able to maintain some decorum as she pushed through the door to the corridor, but then she bolted to the loo, thankful for its proximity. Many a student had made the same desperate sprint with varying degrees of success over the years.

Soon, it was her own stomach's contents that she was staring at, as she spilled them into the toilet.

When it was over having heaved until there was nothing left to heave, she stood at the sinks, her latex gloves discarded and rolled up in a wad of paper towels. The cold water was running from the faucet as she splashed some on her face and she caught some in her cupped hand to rinse her mouth. She looked in the mirror at her reflection which showed her sickly pallor and dark shadows under her eyes.

Well wasn't this just perfect, she thought sarcastically. Here it was Christmas Eve and she was looking forward to a romantic evening with Sherlock curled up under their Christmas tree and it seemed she was coming down with something. How _utterly_ perfect!

She'd actually felt a bit off for a while now, just an occasional bit of vertigo. She was intending to see her doctor as she thought she might need to have an ear irrigation to resolve the issue. Now she suspected some viral illness to be the cause.

She still felt a bit iffy, but the autopsy was almost complete and so she decided to ignore the unsettled feeling until she was done. She made full use of her seniority to get her assisting student to do much of the work, instructing her on preparing the body, readying it for the morticians who would take possession of it once the autopsy was finished.

Originally she had planned on joining her departments yearly Christmas party, that was already in progress, but she was feeling exhausted by this point and so she ended up searching out Mike Stamford. She told him she wasn't feeling too well and that she was just going to go home early. He was disappointed but he wished her a happy holiday and told her to get some rest. She was taking a few days off for Christmas this year so she planned to do just that.

Molly felt a continuing mild nausea as she rode home in a cab and she was grateful that she had chosen to spring for the quicker ride, rather than following her usual pattern of stubborn frugality on the Underground. She imagined throwing up on a train would not have been a pretty sight for the afternoon commuters.

But she made it home to Baker street, which was empty for the time being, as Sherlock had mentioned that he was working on a case, but he promised to be back that evening. So Molly put on some worn and comfy flannel pajamas and wrapped herself in a blanket. She gave a brief and wistful thought to the silly Christmassy knickers and bra set, that had brought so much change to her life, as she curled up in Sherlock's chair.

She stared mindlessly at Christmas movies on the telly until she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had gone about his day procuring items he needed for the case he was working. Well, it wasn't exactly a case, it was more of a personal project, but it was proving to be more difficult than he had anticipated. It was a delicate issue and typically he would have made a blunt statement and have done with it, only the subject he was dealing with happened to be one he cared about a great deal.<p>

He had found it best to avoid angering the woman with whom he had formed a legally binding and, he might add, satisfyingly romantic union. He had discovered that she had the power to make his life a joy, but she wasn't afraid of bringing the hammer down, so to speak, if his experiments got a little too convoluted or messy

For example, he thought that living with a woman was extremely interesting as he could finally make some first hand observation regarding the female hormonal state and how they affect stress levels, mood and behaviours. He had read studies of the effects of hormones on criminal cases involving perpetrators of both genders. But whereas he had many opportunities to observe the affects of hormones in men – John still became flustered when questioned by Sherlock on how his state of sexual arousal affected his ability to cope with stressful situations and whether or not it impeded his decision making capabilities - but there were relatively few opportunities for first hand prolonged studies of females or at least that was the case before Molly had entered his life. It was intriguing!

And when Molly had switched birth control methods from hormonal, which were responsible for triggering her migraines - to an IUD, he couldn't have been more pleased, as he would now have the chance to observe her natural hormonal fluctuations.

As it turned out there were limits as to how many questions Molly would answer regarding her level of irritability in relation to the point she was at in her cycle. Molly argued that it was hard to distinguish her natural feelings of irritability due to the extra stimulus he was providing which might skewer his test results.

Point taken.

What he _had _observed, that was of particular interest now, were her atypical cycle lengths. It was not uncommon for her to miss two or three periods of menses. He attributed this to her stressful job and sometimes inadequate diet as she displayed no other health risks. It was this observation that complicated this delicate situation.

When he arrived home and found Molly already there, he walked to where she slept and watched her for a moment. She was curled up and looked so small in his chair. Her face was pale and peaky and even in her sleep her brow was furrowed in discomfort. She looked like a frail and delicate bird, he thought, that had forgotten to flee the approach of winter. He blinked and wondered at the way Molly had of inspiring such uncharacteristically fanciful thoughts in him. He crouched down and tenderly smoothed the hair away from her forehead and placed a gentle kiss there.

She stirred and her eyes fluttered open to see his face hovering near hers, observing her with those strange beautiful eyes of his. It still sent a thrill through her to realize that look was for her and her alone.

"Hi." He said softly as he smiled at his wife. "You're home early, I see."

She covered her mouth as she yawned. "Yeah, you might want to keep away from me. I'm coming down with something, wouldn't want you to catch it."

"Try to keep me away." He challenged. "And I'm not at all concerned with catching what you have."

"You'll feel differently when you're the one praying to the porcelain."

He just shrugged and kissed the tip of her nose. "Time will tell. Do you feel up to eating?" He asked.

"Funny enough." Molly sat up in the chair. "I'm starved. Do you want to order some curry?"

"Curry? Molly are you sure? I was thinking something lighter. Just some rice and steamed veg?"

"Blah! Boring. Besides who is going to make it? Because I don't plan on cooking a thing!"

"I could?"

"Ha, I don't think so!"

"I _can _cook, Molly. I just don't choose to very often."

"But if you're not terrified of contracting my mysterious contagion then I plan on cuddling you, so I'm afraid you won't be available for cooking. Come on, let's just order something, please?"

"As you wish." Sherlock said and they embraced briefly while he placed another lingering kiss on her forehead.

"Hm, no fever." He observed.

"My Mum used to check for fevers with a kiss." Molly smiled.

"So did mine".

It was a bit odd, Molly thought, Sherlock suggesting to make something when ordering out was a typical meal at their home.

"I doubt we even have any vegetables, any way." Molly pointed out.

"Actually, we do. I did the shopping."

"You what? I usually have to drag you kicking and screaming to help with the shopping. What's gotten into you?" Molly wondered in amazement.

Sure enough, the fridge was strangely devoid of body parts and chock-full of fruits and vegetables. She shook her head at the sight. Must be some kind of experiment he was working on, you could never be sure with Sherlock.

As tempting as some of that fruit looked, Molly insisted that they shouldn't deviate from their normal evening in, and finally he aquiesced. The meal was ordered and delivered promptly. Sherlock insisted that she relax while he dealt with the food and so she returned to her nest in Sherlock's chair and watched Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye dance across the television screen.

In the kitchen Sherlock opened cupboards and fetched plates and utensils. He removed the lids from the take away containers and the strong smell of curry curled throughout the flat. Molly had come back to the kitchen to help dish out the food but when the aroma struck her, it sent her on a B line straight for the loo.

Sherlock rapped lightly on the door a couple of times before entering without waiting for a reply. She was still retching and when she was done Molly sat back on the floor, head in hands, eyes shut tight and her face more pale than ever.

Quietly , Sherlock went about filling a cup with cold water. Then wetting a facecloth, he sat on the edge of the tub, behind her and reached around to gently wipe her face with it, soothing her with the coolness. When a few moments had passed he offered her the water.

She waved it away, not yet ready to ingest anything and he set it beside the sink, and instead lightly rubbed her back and shoulders until she seemed somewhat recovered.

"Have I told you you're worth your weight in gold?" She stood shakily to sit beside him on the edge of the tub and rested her head on his shoulder.

He kissed the top of her head and put his arm around her, gathering her close to his side. "I am rather good at this husband business, aren't I?"

They sat there for awhile and Molly seemed content for the moment. Sherlock was loath to disturb her peaceful state but there was a matter that needed to be dealt with here and it seemed delay was no longer an option.

"Molly?"

"Hmm?" She hummed sleepily.

"I need to give you something."

"Okay. As long as it isn't another virus. I'm having entirely too much fun with this one, thank-you."

He gave her another gentle squeeze and got up. "Back in a moment."

He left the room and returned with a paper bag. He closed the lid of the toilet and sat on it so he could face her. He looked at her for a moment and handed the bag over. She looked at him with curiosity and took the bag to open it.

Her eyes grew wide when she saw the bag's contents. She pulled out the item and held it aloft with a wide-eyed expression on her face.

It was a box containing a home pregnancy test.

"No, Sherlock." She said

"What do you mean, _no_?"

"I mean, I'm not . . . n-not pregnant. I'm just sick! You're wrong! My IUD has proven to be very effective. I've had no problems with it all year."

"I shouldn't have to remind you that no method is 100% effective, Molly. When was the last time you checked the placement of your IUD?"

"You know I check it after my period."

"And that was when?"

Molly sat and thought about that for sometime.

"Oh." She said.

"Yes." Sherlock answered. "Oh."

"But I can't be . . .Can I?"

"Yes, you can. Yes, you are. But why not take the test as confirmation? It says to use first morning urine, but I expect that at this advanced stage, your human chorionic gonadotrophin levels should be high enough to detect with a less concentrated urine."

"Advanced stage?" Molly said, a hint of panic in her voice now.

"Well, by advanced, I mean eight weeks. Your last menses was three months ago, but with your erratic cycles I determined that ovulation occurred about six weeks ago. Typically two weeks are added to that calculation by using the standard female reproductive cycle. These tests are designed to detect pregnancy at two weeks after conception which would be four weeks of pregnancy."

Molly just sat there with her mouth hanging open. She had extensive medical training and she was aware of these things that he was telling her, but trying to take her theoretical knowledge of pregnancy and apply it her own reality seemed an impossible feat at the moment.

"Why didn't you tell me that you suspected this sooner?"

"Molly, I've tried hinting at it for quite some time, now."

"When? How?"

"Three weeks ago I pointed out your sudden aversion to coffee."

"Lots of people develop an aversion to the coffee at work. It's disgusting. You've said so yourself."

"Oh please, Molly. You drank the stuff like it was water. And suddenly you drop it altogether? Also there's your breasts."

"My breasts? What about them?"

"Well, they're obviously larger, aren't they?"

"They are?" Molly looked down at her chest. It didn't seem obvious to her, at all.

"Yes. And they are more sensitive. I've had to greatly reduce the amount of pressure applied when I handle them."

Molly just shook her head at that, not recalling any change in the way he fondled her when they made love.

"And then there's Chadwick's sign."

"What?"

"Chadwick's sign. The colour of your vulva Molly. It's changed dramatically from pink to a more purple hue due to the increase in blood volume. I'm surprised you didn't notice that one yourself."

"Yeah, well I don't generally get a very good view of that particular part of my anatomy, Sherlock."

"You should. It's extremely fascinating! Did you know that during pregnancy, a women's blood volume increases by forty to fifty percent-"

"I'll take the test." Molly interrupted. "You've convinced me. But if you're right -"

"I am." This time Sherlock interrupted.

Sherlock gave her some privacy to do the test after attempting to advise Molly on how to follow the procedure until Molly reminded him that she did have a background in medicine and could probably manage to pee on a stick without help. So he left her to it and went back to the kitchen to clear away the curry, going as far as to take it outside and throw it in the trash so Molly wouldn't be bothered by the smell.

Molly came out of the loo a few minutes later with the test clutched in her hand and an expression on her face of utter shock. She walked over to the sofa and collapsed on it.

"Maybe I should have stayed in there. Now I really feel sick. I blame you, you know." She whined to Sherlock who was busying himself with some task in the kitchen.

"Do you, now?" Sherlock smirked. "I seem to remember waking that morning in the midst of a very enthusiastic act of fellatio, which progressed into something you referred to as the cowgirl."

"You know the specific time we had sex where we conceived?"

"I have my suspicions."

"How?"

"By observing, Molly. As always."

This was unbelievable, Molly just couldn't wrap her mind around the idea that at this very moment a tiny human being that was half her and half Sherlock was growing inside her. Her stomach gave another faint roll.

"Ugh, so this is morning sickness. So why am I feeling it at night?"

"It's a misnomer, Molly. It can strike at anytime of the day. It's suggested that you consume small, high protein meals and keep hydrated to stave off the worst of the nausea. And I've something that may help." He joined her on the sofa with two steaming mugs of tea.

"Ugh. Sherlock I don't think I've even the stomach for tea right now."

"But this is ginger tea. It's supposed to help the nausea."

She accepted the cup from Sherlock and took a tentative sip.

They sat quietly for a moment before Molly shook her head and spoke.

"What are we going to do?"

"Seems obvious. We'll become parents."

"Oh God!" Molly groaned putting her cup down and dropping her head into her hands.

"What if we are horrible parents? What if we mess up? We don't know a thing about raising children! We've made no plans for this!"

"We'll learn how to be good parents. We'll clean up any messes we make. We will learn how to raise children. We will do our planning now." Sherlock held up his fingers and counted off the points as he answered all of Molly's questions.

"Yeah but, what if something happens to one of us? What if I get sick like my Dad? What if the baby has special needs? How will we arrange work around a baby's schedule? How -"

"Molly, Molly," Sherlock smiled at his wife shaking his head. "You seem to be under the impression that we can't do this unless we are provided with some kind of . . . guarantee regarding life. Unfortunately guarantees don't exist. You know it as well as I do. In your line of work it's obvious that life has only one promise, that it will end at some point."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? If so, I have to say that you kind of suck at motivational speeches."

Sherlock ignored the interruption. "Acknowledging your mortality doesn't stop you from carrying on with your life, does it? Do you sit down and stop everything because you were not bestowed with eternal life and perfect health?"

Molly slumped into Sherlock's side and he pulled her close again.

"No, but I can live with that knowledge for myself. I only have a hard time when it comes to the mortality of those I love." He squeezed her tightly thinking of last year and a few moments passed in silence.

"Molly, I think perhaps on some level you knew that there was a chance you might be pregnant."

Molly didn't reply.

"It was that baby, wasn't it?"

She remained quiet but nodded her head slightly. It was an autopsy she performed three weeks ago. It was always the hardest part of her job. It didn't happen all the time, but when she dealt with babies and children on her table it was never an easy task. She tried to remain professional. It was important to provide answers for the parents. They needed to know and so she worked diligently to find them. But every time it was devastating. Every. Single. Time.

"Maybe a part of me wondered why I was feeling so dizzy. I decided it was an inner ear problem and latched onto that idea. But Sherlock . . ." She paused trying to find the words that would properly convey the depth of her fears. "What if that were our baby? What if we have this baby and we fall in love with it and something bad happens?" She blinked rapidly trying to prevent the inevitable tears.

Sherlock sighed. "What we would do Molly, would be to deal with that if and when the time ever comes, like any parent does. Like I said there are no guarantees. But statistically, it isn't very likely to happen, is it? In the end, I have found that risking hurt is just part of human attachment. I should know as I've spent years closing off that part of my life. Let me tell you from experience, Molly, life is an infinitely richer experience when you permit yourself to feel."

He pulled Molly into his lap and embraced her, lovingly cradling her in his arms and she lay her head on his shoulder as they gazed at their Christmas tree filling the room with it's soft light.

Molly wrapped her arms around her husband, placing a soft kiss high on his cheek and nestled back into his neck and sighed.

"I don't get it, Sherlock? Why aren't you terrified? I am. We've never really planned on children. This changes everything."

Sherlock considered this for a moment before answering. "I've had more time to adjust to the idea for starters. It was a bit unsettling at first." He touched her chin and she lifted her head to gaze into his face. "But then I thought how interesting it is to observe John and Mary's children. The way they experience everything for the first time. They way they learn. It's fascinating, isn't it? And then I thought how it would infinitely more interesting if it were our children. Don't you think so, Molly?"

"Imagine all of the many combinations of our genetic contributions and what may be the result of such a union. This baby could be anything, anyone. It's rather exciting, isn't it?"

Once again they were locked in a staring contest. Molly began to smile at the idea and there was a glisten of tears, of happiness this time that moistened her eyes. Sherlock swiped a tear that had escaped and was running down her cheek and brought her close and kissed her soundly.

"I have something for you." Sherlock said when they parted.

"It's not some other test, is it? Are you going to check my blood sugar next? Maybe tell me I'm diabetic to boot."

"Not a test." He assured her and with a bit of effort he managed to reach the pocket of his jacket and extract a package wrapped in Christmas paper.

Molly took it from him with a questioning look,

"Shouldn't we wait for tomorrow?"

"Not for this one."

The package was small and soft and when she removed the paper she found it was an infant onesie.

On the front were the elements from the periodic table for Barium, Boron and Yttrium.

Ba B Y.

"We're having a baby, Sherlock." She said in a wondering voice.

"Yes, I know. Isn't it brilliant?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>So, I really hope I haven't deviated so far from Sherlock's character. I'm hoping it comes across, that he is slowly breaking down all of his barriers. And I liked the idea that he was into all of the science aspect of pregnancy. And I looooved the idea that he would try to take care of Molly and be the one that has an easier time accepting it. As always, I'm nervous about this . . .<strong>_


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